said--you
would be kind. Oh, mother--mother!" He tried uselessly to lift one arm
to cover his convulsed face, and could only turn his head a little
aside.

"You can go, Wallis," said Phyllis softly, with her lips only. "Be in
the next room." The man stole out and shut the door softly. Phyllis
herself rose and went toward the window, and busied herself in braiding
up her hair. There was almost silence in the room for a few minutes.

"Thank--you," said Allan brokenly. "Will you--come back, please?"

She returned swiftly, and sat by him as she had before.

"Would you mind--holding my wrists again?" he asked. "I feel quieter,
somehow, when you do--not so--lost." There was a pathetic boyishness in
his tone that the sad, clear lines of his face would never prepare you
for.

Phyllis took his wrists in her warm, strong hands obediently.

"Are you in pain, Allan?" she asked. "Do you mind if I call you Allan?
It's the easiest way."

He smiled at her a little, faintly. It occurred to her that perhaps the
novelty of her was taking his mind a little from his own feelings.

"No--no pain. I haven't had any for a very long time now. Only this
dreadful blackness dragging at my mind, a blackness the light hurts."

"_Why!_" said Phyllis to herself, being on known ground here--"why, it's
nervous depression! I believe cheering-up _would_ help. I know," she
said aloud; "I've had it."

"You?" he said. "But you seem so--happy!"

"I suppose I am," said Phyllis shyly. She felt a little afraid of "poor
Allan" still, now that there was nothing to do for him, and they were
talking together. And he had not answered her question, either;
doubtless he wanted her to say "Mr. Allan" or even "Mr. Harrington!" He
replied to her thought in the uncanny way invalids sometimes do.

"You said something about what we were to call each other," he murmured.
"It would be foolish, of course, not to use first names. Yours is Alice,
isn't it?"

Phyllis laughed. "Oh, worse than that!" she said. "I was named out of a
poetrybook, I believe--Phyllis Narcissa. But I always conceal the
Narcissa."

"Phyllis. Thank you," he said wearily. ... "_Phyllis, don't let go!
Talk_ to me!" His eyes were those of a man in torment.

"What shall I talk about?" she asked soothingly, keeping the two cold,
clutching hands in her warm grasp. "Shall I tell you a story? I know a
great many stories by heart, and I will say them for you if you like. It
was part of my work."