lise that I am yours, as absolutely and truly as though we were
formally engaged. You are free as air to do in every respect as you
will, but you cannot alter my position. I cannot alter it myself. The
thing has grown beyond my control. You are my life; for weal or woe I
must be faithful to you. I make only one claim--that when you need a
friend you will send for me. When there is any service, however small,
which I can render, you will let me do it. It isn't much to ask, is it,
sweetheart?"

There was a moment's pause--I tried desperately and unsuccessfully to
get interested in Maud, and then Vere's voice said gently--more gently
than I had ever heard her speak--

"Dear old Jim, you are so good always! It's a very unfair arrangement,
and it would be horribly selfish to agree. I'd like well enough to have
you coming down; it would be a distraction, and help to pass the time.
I expect we shall be terribly quiet here, and I have always been
accustomed to having some man to fly round and wait upon me. There is
no one I would like better than you--wait a moment--no one I would like
better while I am ill! I can trust you, and you are so thoughtful and
kind. But if I get well again? What then? It is best to be honest,
isn't it, Jim? You used to bore me sometimes when I was well, and you
might bore me again. It isn't fair!"

"It is perfectly fair, for I am asking no promises. If I can be of the
least use or comfort to you now, that is all I ask. I know I am a dull,
heavy fellow. It isn't likely you could be bothered with me when you
were well."

Silence. I would not look, but I could imagine how they looked. Jim
bending over her with his strong brown features a-quiver with emotion.
Vere with the lace scarf tied under her chin, her lovely white little
face gazing up at him in unwonted gentleness.

"I wonder," she said slowly, "I wonder what there is in me to attract
you, Jim! You are not like other men. You would not care for
appearances only, yet, apart from my face and figure--my poor figure of
which I was so proud--there is nothing left which could really please
you. I have been a vain, empty-headed girl all my life. I cared for
myself more than anything on earth. I do now! You think I am brave and
uncomplaining, but it is all a sham. I am too proud to whine, but in
reality I am seething with bitterness and rebellion. I am longing to
get well, not to lead a self-sacrificing life like Rachel