fe, growing impatient at my
helplessness--which you do not yet realize--and in the end--oh, well,
one can think all sorts of things in spite of a resolution not to
think."

It stung Hollister.

"Good God," he cried, "you don't realize it's only the fact you
_can't_ see me that makes it possible. Why, I've clutched at you the
way a drowning man clutches at anything. That I should get tired of
you, feel you as a burden--it's unthinkable. I'm thankful you're
blind. I shall always be glad you can't see. If you could--what sort
of picture of me have you in your mind?"

"Perhaps not a very clear one," the girl answered slowly. "But I hear
your voice, and it is a pleasant one. I feel your touch, and there is
something there that moves me in the oddest way. I know that you are a
big man and strong. Of course I don't know whether your eyes are blue
or brown, whether your hair is fair or dark--and I don't care. As for
your face I can't possibly imagine it as terrible, unless you were
angry. What are scars? Nothing, nothing. I can't see them. It wouldn't
make any difference if I could."

"It would," he muttered. "I'm afraid it would."

Doris shook her head. She looked up at him, with that peculiarly
direct, intent gaze which always gave him the impression that she did
see. Her eyes, the soft gray of a summer rain cloud--no one would have
guessed them sightless. They seemed to see, to be expressive, to glow
and soften.

She lifted a hand to Hollister's face. He did not shrink while those
soft fingers went exploring the devastation wrought by the exploding
shell. They touched caressingly the scarred and vivid flesh. And they
finished with a gentle pat on his cheek and a momentary, kittenish
rumpling of his hair.

"I cannot find so very much amiss," she said. "Your nose is a bit
awry, and there is a hollow in one cheek. I can feel scars. What does
it matter? A man is what he thinks and feels and does. I am the maimed
one, really. There is so much I can't do, Bob. You don't realize it
yet. And we won't always be living this way, sitting idle on the
beach, going to a show, having tea in the Granada. I used to run and
swim and climb hills. I could have gone anywhere with you--done
anything--been as good a mate as any primitive woman. But my wings are
clipped. I can only get about in familiar surroundings. And sometimes
it grows intolerable. I rebel. I rave--and wish I were dead. And if I
thought I was hampering you, and you we