only person he had known intimately and
for whom he had entertained any real affection, was suddenly taken
away. He was now absolutely alone in the world, and the poignancy of
his position came home to him acutely.

It is a terrible thing to be lonely. Lonely men do all sorts of
dreadful things--things they would certainly never dream of doing if
they had companionship. And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now.
Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite
the fact that he had no money, and worse still--no prospects of ever
making any. And loneliness was in the main responsible for it.

Had he not been so lonely--had he not spent days and days, alone in
lodgings, with no one to talk to--no one to care whether he were ill
or dying; had this not been his experience--the experience he was even
then undergoing, reason would have outweighed folly, and even though
he might have realized that in Gladys Martin he had found his ideal of
beauty--of womanliness, he would have been content only to admire.

As it was, he was in that very dangerous mood when the heart yearns
for sympathy; when a plain woman's sympathy means much--and a pretty
woman's more than much. It is no exaggeration to say that Shiel would
have lain down and died for Gladys ten times over. For her sake--if
only to see her smile, no mere physical pain would have been too
excruciating for him to bear. And when she put the finishing touches
to the bandages, and quite by chance, of course, their eyes met, he
looked at her as if he never meant to leave off looking at her, as if
he never meant to do anything else but look at her for all eternity.

Whether she understood as much or not, is impossible to say. Shiel
asked himself the question over and over again before the day was out,
and in his sleep, and during the next day, and for many days
afterwards. Could she tell how much he admired her? How much he
worshipped her? All that he was prepared to do for her sweet sake? All
this he asked himself repeatedly, and went on thinking of her when he
knew he ought never to have thought of her at all.

"I'm sure your hands are more comfortable now. Won't you go into the
garden and see how the work is progressing?" she said. "Or if you are
afraid Father will want you to dig again, perhaps you would like to go
into his study and read the papers."

"I should like to stay here and listen to you singing," he said.
"Mayn't I do that?"

"You might,"