'I don't offer any excuse; there is none to offer. I want only the comparative peace of the assurance that those I have wronged understand now. I have talked with Mr. Maxineff. He was with me afterwards, when the pain--He hushed me far too gently, but he will not forget. You will not forget either, Becky, and you will not excuse. If, though, you should ask me why, I would say again, I love you. It is the only reason. I was thinking of you while I was making myself unfit for you to think of me.' 'Do you care so much?' Becky asked softly. 'Yes. May I keep on caring?' 'To what good?' 'For the sake of the little good in me, which love of you will keep alive and growing.' 'You ask nothing of me. What will you find in caring for me?' 'There will be a constant joy in knowing that you permit me to care.' Becky was silent. 'If you won't let me, I am afraid it will make no difference, because I cannot help it, you know. I don't want to help it; you don't mind my saying so?' For a moment neither of them spoke. Noakes rose. 'I--Becky, I thank you for hearing me out.' He went a step away from her. 'I'm going.' She did not rise. 'I am glad you have not spoken of my--my mistake; and somehow I am sorry. I know what you--' 'How do you know what I think?' 'I know; that's all.' 'Don't go, please,' Becky said. 'Hadn't I better? I'm tired, and the doctor--A last acknowledgment: I am afraid to hear you.' 'But I don't want you to go,' she said softly. Something in her tone made Noakes turn sharply. 'Becky!' 'Yes, Noakes?' 'You don't--' 'Yes!' 'You love me, and blind?' 'You are brave!' Her hands were in his when he sat by her side. 'I talked with the doctor this morning,' she said. 'As I did.' 'No. He gave me a message for you.' 'A message from the doctor?' 'It was Mr. Max's notion that I should tell you.' 'What is it?' Noakes asked quickly. 'Your eyes--they will be well in time, if you are very careful.' As Noakes breathed deep in relief and gratitude, one of his hands engaged two of Becky's, and he found a different use for the other. 'Noakes,' Becky said, 'I'll take care of the eyes.' THE GARDEN OF MEMORIES BY C. A. MERCER The garden looked dreary and desolate in spite of the afternoon sunshine. The lilac and lavender bushes were past their prime; their wealth of sweetness had been squandered by riotous offshoots. The wind played among the branches, and cast changing sun-flecked shadows on the grass-grown paths, narrowed by the encroachment of the box borders that had once lined the way with the stiff precision of troops before a royal progress. The flowers had the air of being overburdened with the monotony of their existence. They could never have had that aspect if they had been only wild flowers and had never experienced human care and companionship. That made the difference.