“I am sick,” he rambled on--“and very tired.... We were boys together, Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him.... He was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do.... So young, and straight, and daring.... I would not harm him. Or you, Cecile.... Only I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left--from being badly hurt--It never got well. ... And now it is dying of its hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before it dies I do forgive him--and ask forgiveness--for Christ’s sake--” Toward noon the janitor broke in the door. VII It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room. “Cecile?” he said, distinctly. The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her throat. “Dearest?” he said, inquiringly. Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and laid her cheek on it, crying silently. As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her. The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him. “I want--Graylock,” he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing at him intently. “Graylock,” he repeated. “Not now,” she murmured, “not today. Rest for a while.” “Please,” he said, looking up at her trustfully--“Graylock. Now.” “When you are well--” “I am--well. Please, dear.” For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding. So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock. It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor’s quarters where there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood. So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven. As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated. But the memory of Drene’s eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided her. After a little waiting she got Graylock’s apartment. A servant asked her to hold the wire. After an interval she recognized Graylock’s voice at the telephone, pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the season. “What are you doing this Christmas night?” she asked. “Surely you are not all alone there at home?”