"It's just as I said long ago," she sighed plaintively when he had finished; "you have gone out into the world and done things, and I have stayed at home and done--_nothing_! Oh, Miles, it was hard being taken ill just then! Father had come home, and we were looking forward to travelling about, and having a good time together, and being so happy. I had finished classes, and was old enough to come out, and I meant to be such a good daughter, and to take care of the parents for a change, after being taken care of all my life. I was going to my first ball--my dress was in the house--when I caught influenza, and since then"--she threw out her arms with an expressive gesture--"it's been this sort of thing all the time! Lying still--eating--sleeping--being waited on hand and foot; an anxiety instead of a help; a care instead of a joy--oh, and I _did_ want to be a joy!" She paused a moment to press her lips together, and to give her head an impatient shake. "I mustn't be silly! Father and mother don't guess that I feel like this, and it isn't always so bad. Some days I feel quite bright and happy, especially lately, since I've been getting better, but seeing you brought back the dear old days, and oh, I _want_ to be well again, and run about with you on the sands. I shan't be able to go about with you at all." "I will come and sit with you as often as I may--as long as I may," said Miles huskily whereupon Cynthia smiled on him again. "How nice of you! Ah yes, you must come. I'll keep quite quiet for the rest of the day, and then I can talk while you are here. There's so much I want to tell, and to hear!" She coughed again, and brushed her hair from her brow, evidently fatigued by her own emotion. The dainty finish and grace of her appearance, which had been the greatest charm in Miles' eyes long ago, was accentuated by her illness into a fragility which made her seem more like a spirit than a flesh-and-blood woman to his unaccustomed eyes. His thoughts raced back for a moment to the scene of his Mexican home, and he realised the folly of the dream which had for so long made the half-conscious background of his thoughts. Even if she were willing, even if she loved him, as he loved and would always love her, it would be a madman who could dream of transplanting this fragile flower to those rude surroundings. Cynthia was not for him! Their lives, for the present at least, lay far apart. As for the future, that was in God's hands; it would be selfish and cowardly to try to ensure it for himself. Miles' heart was wrung with the agony of renunciation, but his set face showed no signs of his suffering. He cheered Cynthia with renewed promises of daily visits, chatted with her of old friends and old times, and had the reward of hearing her laugh with the old merry ring. When he took her hand in farewell, she looked at him with frank eyes, and said sweetly--