e is very ill one takes the most unlikely happenings as
commonplace occurrences. It seemed enough to her that I was by her side.
We talked of her nurses, who were kind; of the skill of Dr. Steinholz,
who brought into his clinique the rigid discipline of a man-of-war.

"He wouldn't even let me have your flowers," she said. "And even if he
had I shouldn't have been able to see them in this dark hole."

She questioned me as to my doings. I told her of my move to Barbara's
Building.

"And I'm keeping you from all that splendid work," she said weakly. "You
must go back at once, Simon. I shall get along nicely now, and I shall
be happy now that I've seen you again."

I kissed her fingers. "You have to learn a lesson, my dear, which will
do you an enormous amount of good."

"What is that?"

"The glorious duty of selfishness."

Then the minute hand of the clock marked the end of the interview, and
the nurse appeared on the click and turned me out.

After that I saw her daily; gradually our interviews lengthened, and as
she recovered strength our talks wandered from the little incidents and
interests of the sick-room to the general topics of our lives. I told
her of all that had happened to me since her flight. And I told her that
I wanted her and her only of all women.

"Why--oh, why, did you do such a foolish thing?" I asked.

"I did it for your good."

"My dear, have you ever heard the story of the tender-hearted elephant?
No? It was told in a wonderful book published years ago and called
'The Fables of George Washington AEsop.' This is it. There was once an
elephant who accidentally trod on the mother of a brood of newly-hatched
chickens. Her tender heart filled with remorse for what she had done,
and, overflowing with pity for the fluffy orphans, she wept bitterly,
and addressed them thus: 'Poor little motherless things, doomed to face
the rough world without a parent's care, I myself will be a mother to
you.' Whereupon, gathering them under her with maternal fondness, she
sat down on the whole brood."

The unbandaged half of her face lit up with a wan smile. "Did I do
that?"

"I didn't conceive it possible that you could love me except for the
outside things."

"You might have waited and seen," said I in mild reproof.

She sighed. "You'll never understand. Do you remember my saying once
that you reminded me of an English Duke?"

"Yes."

"You made fun of me; but you must have known what I meant. You se