eciate your kindness. Peter has had
such a terrible time of it."

"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way
himself."

"He has confided in you?"

"A little. He told me he regretted nothing."

"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed.

"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams."

"That's because of his courage."

"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked.

"Don't you think it does--with your eyes gone?"

"With or without eyes," he admitted.

"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does
n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll
never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and
white and blind, he lay there as though dead."

He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine
courage too. There was something of Peter in her.

"And you nursed him back."

She blushed at the praise.

"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had
that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real
to him. I tried to make him hope."

"That was fine."

"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything,"
she explained.

"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded.

She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake.

"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway
about it, can there?"

"I wonder."

"You--you wonder, Mr. Covington?"

He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she
turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He
was married--that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife,
and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else,
for him to admit anything else, was impossible.

"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily.

He felt like a cad. He turned instantly.

"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are
n't all of us like Peter."

"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl
declared.

"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested.

"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat
stiffly.

"But you did."

"How?"

"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I
was not quite a proper person to walk with."

"Mr. Covington!" she protested.

"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune