turned ankle would not do any work, and she could not get up. He heard
her moan. And looked at her once more, his eyes round with wonder.

"But I have just taken you to Lord Harrow's in a motor," he said; "and
yet here you are--and in pain."

"I think I can walk," she said. "If you don't mind helping me a little."

"Of course I don't mind," said the Poor Boy cautiously. "But you know
as well as I do that when you touch them,--they vanish."

There was a pained silence. She was bitterly disappointed. The Poor Boy
was thoroughly bewildered. His imagination was playing him an
extraordinary trick.

"That's the reason," he went on, "that we can never tell each other that
we love each other, you know. 'Cause if we did, we'd have to kiss and
hold hands--and that would be the end of everything--better you this
way--than the other way and _no you_."

Her pain was becoming greater than she could bear.

"_Any_ man would help me," she began; and then came the tears in a
torrent.

The Poor Boy could not stand it.

"It is better," he said, "that she should vanish!"

He stepped swiftly forward.

The realness of her almost dazed him. In his happiest day-dreams in Lord
Harrow's rose-garden by the lake there had never been quite so vivid a
materialization. Furthermore, she had violets in her dress, and as he
bent to lift her (and resolve her into the stuff o' dreams) the
sweetness of them was strong in his nostrils.

[Illustration: And then carrying her swiftly home, he proceeded to go
quite mad.]

"Well--well," he thought, "people with too much imagination always do
end by going mad. And now it's happened to me."

And it was just what did happen to him a moment later, only he was to go
mad with a different kind of madness--a sane and wonderful madness.

He touched her and she did not vanish.

He made a sound that was half moan, half pity, and he lifted her in his
strong arms. And then carrying her swiftly home, he proceeded, as I have
forewarned the reader, to go quite mad. So did she, bless her, until
there was no longer any pain in her ankle or in her heart.

"Well--well," said old Martha; "what's all this?"

She stood in the door of the house lighting them with a lamp.

"This," said the Poor Boy in his ecstasy, "is a new and wonderful
thing."

He laughed aloud for joy.

"And the more you kiss her--the less she vanishes!"

End of Project Gutenberg's If You Touch Them They Vanish, by Gouverneur Morri