"Yes, Miss Warren," I said quietly, "I am now doing my best." "And you are doing nobly--so nobly that I am tempted to give you a strong proof of friendship; to tell you what I have not told any one except Mrs. Yocomb. I feel as if I had rather you heard it from me than casually from others. It will show how--how I trust you." My very heart seemed to stand still, and I think my pallor alarmed her; but feeling that she had gone too far, she continued hurriedly, taking a letter from her pocket: "I expect my friend to-night. He's been absent, and now writes that he will--" I shrank involuntarily as if from a blow, and with her face full of distress she stopped abruptly. Summoning the whole strength of my manhood, I rallied sufficiently to say, in a voice that I knew was unnatural from the stress I was under: "I congratulate you. I trust you may be very happy." "I had hoped--" she began. "I would be if I saw that you were happy." "You are always hoping," I replied, trying to laugh, "that I may become sane and rational. Haven't you given that up yet? I shall be very happy to-morrow, and will drink to the health of you both." She looked at me very dubiously, and the trouble in her face did not pass away. "Let me read to you," she said abruptly. "I brought with me Hawthorne's 'Mosses from an Old Manse.' They are not too familiar, I trust?" "I cannot hear them too often," I said, nerving myself as if for torture. She began to read that exquisite little character study, "The Great Stone Face." Her voice was sweet and flexible, and varied with the thought as if the words had been set to music. At first I listened with delight to hear my favorite author so perfectly interpreted; but soon, too soon, every syllable added to my sense of unutterable loss. Possibly she intuitively felt my distress, possibly she saw it as I tried to look as stoical as an Indian chief who is tortured on every side with burning brands. At any rate she stopped, and said hesitatingly: "You--you do not enjoy my reading." With a rather grim smile I replied: "Nothing but the truth will answer with you. I must admit I do not." "Would--would you like to hear something else?" she asked, in evident embarrassment. "Nothing is better than Hawthorne," I said. "I--I fear I'm not yet strong enough." Then, after a second's hesitation, I spoke out despairingly: "Miss Warren, I may as well recognize the truth at once, I never shall be strong enough. I've overrated myself. Good-by." She trembled; tears came into her eyes, and she silently left the room. So abrupt was her departure that it seemed like a flight. After she had gone I tottered to my feet, with an imprecation on my weakness, and I took an amount of stimulant that Dr. Bates would never have prescribed; but it had little effect. In stony, sullen protest at my fate, I sat down again, and the hours passed like eternities. CHAPTER VII OLD PLOD IDEALIZED