"Yes, sir."

"Then why is he here?"

"I met him and invited him to come."

"Ah, ha. But I don't want him here; don't want you to see him."

She sat looking at him as if she would study every line of his face. He
shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked down. The cough came
again, and he looked at the girl. "You know the reason I don't want you
to see him. Don't you?"

"Yes, sir, and I know the reason why I do want to see him."

"The devil--pardon me," he quickly added, withdrawing his hands from his
pockets and bowing to her. She slightly inclined her head and smiled
sadly. He looked hard at her, striving to read her thoughts; and she was
so frail, her face was so thin and her eyes so wistful that she smote
him with pity. He reached over and took one of her hands, and
affectionately she gave him the other one. She tried to laugh. The cough
came again, and she took her hands away. He reached for them, but she
put them behind her. "No, not until I have told you," she said, and he
saw her lip tremble. "He was afraid to come in here to see you," she
went on, speaking with timid slowness. "He is so weak and sick that he
can't stand to be scolded, so I have come to--" She hesitated. He shoved
himself back and looked hard at her, and his eyebrows stuck out
fiercely.

"To ask me what?" His voice was dry and rasping. "What can you ask me?
To let him come here to see you? No, daughter. I can't permit that. And
I don't intend to be cruel when I say this. I am sorry for him, God
knows I deeply sympathize with him, but he must not hope to--"

"I was not going to ask you to let him come," she broke in. "I am going
to ask you to let me go--go with him."

"By the blood!" the Major exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "What do you
mean? Marry him?"

"Yes, sir," she quietly answered. He looked at her, frowning, his face
puffed, his brows jagged. And then appearing to master himself he sat
down and strove to take her hand, but she held it behind her. "My
daughter, I want to talk to you, not in anger, but with common sense. It
actually horrifies me to think of your marriage--I can't do it, that's
all. Why, the poor fellow can't live three months; he is dead on his
feet now. Listen at that cough. Louise, how can you think of marrying
him? Haven't you any judgment at all? Is it possible that you have
lost--but I won't scold you; I must reason with you. There is time
enough for you to marry, and the sympathetic fancy that