“I am glad you are better. I didn’t even know it until you had passed the crisis.” “Whose fault was it?” That old perversity had not been subdued by suffering. “Oh, don’t; not to-day, anyhow.” She put her hands up and gently turned down the collar of his coat. “Come, now; lie down on the divan. You’ve overdone your strength.” His fingers in her folded grasp were trembling. “I’m not equal to my work yet,” he said, as he stretched out among the pillows, closing his eyes wearily. “I wouldn’t have come if it had not been your birthday,” turning his head, revealing the painful clearness of his profile. “I remembered you had someone who loved you; to think of it always before--now there’s nobody.” Sitting beside him she stroked his forehead very tenderly. “You were always thoughtful of me.” They were silent for a time. “Sometimes I longed for the warm, sweet touch of your hand on my head,” he said at last; “it throbbed so, and ached.” “Oh, dear, why didn’t you send for me?” “You forget, I didn’t know where to send.” She paled under the answer. “But you had someone you wanted more.” She said this with an impulsive touch of resentment. “She was the best one I ever had. Professional nurses are not always as solicitous or as kind.” “Professional,” Esther repeated to herself, betraying no sign of the relief it gave her. The soft wind moved the curtains and let a flash of sunlight in. Glenn looked out; the air was full of spring. He could not but think of the old days, the paths upon which they had strolled now lay green and solitary through field and woods. For a man who loved to steep himself in the sunshine and open air, he but seldom indulged himself. “Esther, get your hat; it’s too fine a day to be indoors. I’ll take you away, out to Van Cortlandt Park.” “Are you able to stand the trip? Don’t go just for my pleasure.” “I shall enjoy it more than you will,” he said. “It’s what I need. Haven’t I always told you how selfish I was.” Without another word she obeyed him, delighted at the prospect. Van Cortlandt was beautiful. They took a little boat and went out on the lake. So precious was the silence--the solitude--the shadow of the willows, that Glenn allowed Esther to take the oars he had taught her to handle and stretched himself full length in the boat. The water trembled under the sweet wind that blew fresh upon him. Esther was in one of her rapturous moods, gazing with wide, dilated eyes upon the spring woods opening out to screen the unresponsive world--leaving them alone together. She could see it all reviving him like wine. “Esther?” The name and touch thrilled her. “When they told me I might not get well, I thought of you--I had something to tell you.” “Tell me now.” “That was if I had to die.” “Oh, don’t speak of your death!” Her voice thrilled with a passion she herself did not understand. “What I said as a child is still true. Life could not be sweet to me with you out of it.”