She put out her hand to him, the transparent hand, whose only ornament was its heavy wedding ring, and he stooped down and kissed it, with a curiously reverent gesture that made her eyes misty. "You have been such a good friend," she said; "but believe me, there cannot ever be anything but friendship between us two and--there is such a little time now left for anything." "What do you mean?" he asked, with a sudden catch in his breath, his eyes fixed on her thin face, which seemed all at once to have become so ethereal in its whiteness; "why do you speak as if----" "As if--an end were coming? Because--the end is very near." His eyes did not leave her face, but a look of pain leapt into them, a look of such intolerable pain, that Margaret exclaimed quickly-- "I cannot bear to hurt you, but it is better to tell you just the plain truth, even if it hurts you. The end is going to be very soon. Dr. Fergusson thinks it can't be far off now, and I am glad, Rupert. I don't think I can tell you how glad." He made some inarticulate sound, dropping his head into his hands, and her soft voice went on, with soothing monotony-- "There was a great deal of hardship and trouble in my early married life, and I never managed to get over it all. I have been ill almost ever since you knew me, and--in the last few months--I have come to the end of my tether. When Max--went away,"--her voice broke--"all that was left of my life and vitality seemed to go, too. I have tried to live, and I wanted to live, but the disease has got the better of me, and--I am glad the end is in sight." "Did you send for me because"--he lifted his head and looked at her. "I sent for you because I wanted to make everything clear to you, and because I did not want to go right away for ever, without seeing my friend again. And--I wanted to help you--about your own future, if I could." "My own future," Rupert laughed drearily. "Do you think my own future, and anything about me, matters two straws, when you--when you"--his voice trailed away into silence. He sat very still, his face turned towards the window, through which the trees in the wood beyond the house, were already showing a veil of delicate green. "My friendship will have been a very poor thing if it spoils your life," Margaret said gently, her gaze following his to the April trees, and the dappled April sky. "A poor thing?" He turned back to her, a great light in his eyes. "Do you think I regret loving you? Do you think I regret for a single second, having known and loved you? When I first met you, I had the sort of contemptuous tolerance for women, which I had found in other men. It was you who taught me what a good woman can be to a man. Even now, I am not fit to touch the hem of your gown, but since I knew you, I have at least lived straight. I can look you in the face, and say that my hands and heart are clean."