betrayed herself, and fancy that Gifford had
guessed her engagement. He still hoped that, for the sake of their old
friendship, she would freely choose to tell him. But most of all, she
should not feel that she had shown despairing love for a man who
neglected and slighted her, and that her companion pitied her. He even
refused to let his thought turn to it.

"You must not mind me, Lois. I quite understand--the suddenness of
hearing even the most--indifferent thing is enough to upset one when one
is so tired out with nursing, and all that. Don't mind me."

"You are so good, Gifford," she said, with a sudden shy look from under
her wet lashes, and a little lightening of her heavy eyes.

It was at least a joy to feel that he could comfort her, even though it
cut his own heart to do so, and the pain of it made him silent for a few
minutes.

When they had reached the steps, Lois's face had settled into its white
apathy, which was almost despair. "I think I'll go in, Giff," she said.
"I am so tired."

"Won't you fix the roses?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, I--I don't care anything about them; Sally can
do it. Just leave them on the steps."

She gave him a wan little smile, and went into the house. Gifford stood
in the sunshine, with the roses and the white phlox, and looked after her
retreating figure. But in spite of his heartache, he would not leave the
flowers to die, so he went hunting about for something to put them in,
and finding the India china punch-bowl, with its soft blues and greens
of enamel, and twists of roses and butterflies over groups of tiny
mandarins, he brought it out, and laid his flowers in it, a little
clumsily, perhaps, and heedless that some of the stems stuck out; but
as he forgot the water, this did not so much matter. Then he carried it
into the hall, and put it down on the table under the square window, and
plodded home alone.

The noon sunshine poured hot and bright through the little panes of
glass, and when Lois, later in the day, found the withered, drooping
roses and the hanging heads of the white phlox, she felt they were only
in keeping with all the rest of life.

Even the sparkling day had darkened, and Dr. Howe's prophecy of rain had
been fulfilled.

CHAPTER XXVI.

It grew quite chilly towards dusk, which gave Dr. Howe an excuse for
putting a match to the dusty pile of logs in the library fireplace. He
liked the snap and glow of the flames, and did not obje