Lois seemed to listen. "Yes," Gifford continued, gaining conviction from his desire to help her, "of course he will return." Lois had ceased to cry. "Do--do you think so?" "I'm sure of it," Gifford answered firmly; and even as he spoke, he had a mental vision, in which he saw himself bringing Dick Forsythe back to Ashurst, and planting him forcibly at Lois's feet. "I ought to have considered," he went on, looking at her anxiously, "that in your exhausted state it would be a shock to hear that your friends were going so far away; though Europe isn't so very far, Lois. Of course they'll come and tell you all about it before they go; probably they had their own reasons for not doing it before they left Ashurst,--your health, perhaps. But no doubt, no possible doubt, that Mr. Forsythe, at least, will come back here to make any arrangements there may be about his house, you know." This last was a very lame reason, and Gifford felt it, for the house had been closed and the rent paid, and there was nothing more to do; but he must say something to comfort her. Lois had quite regained her composure; even the old hopeless look had returned. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I am very--foolish. I don't know why I am so weak--I--I am still anxious about Mrs. Forsythe, you know; the long journey for her"-- "Of course," he assured her. "I know how it startled you." She turned to go into the house, and Gifford followed her, first picking up the neglected roses at her feet. "I do not know what you think of me," she said tremulously. "I only think you are not very strong," he answered tenderly, yet keeping his eyes from her averted face; he felt that he had seen more than he had a right to, already. His first thought was to protect her from herself; she must not think she had betrayed herself, and fancy that Gifford had guessed her engagement. He still hoped that, for the sake of their old friendship, she would freely choose to tell him. But most of all, she should not feel that she had shown despairing love for a man who neglected and slighted her, and that her companion pitied her. He even refused to let his thought turn to it. "You must not mind me, Lois. I quite understand--the suddenness of hearing even the most--indifferent thing is enough to upset one when one is so tired out with nursing, and all that. Don't mind me." "You are so good, Gifford," she said, with a sudden shy look from under her wet lashes, and a little lightening of her heavy eyes. It was at least a joy to feel that he could comfort her, even though it cut his own heart to do so, and the pain of it made him silent for a few minutes. When they had reached the steps, Lois's face had settled into its white apathy, which was almost despair. "I think I'll go in, Giff," she said. "I am so tired." "Won't you fix the roses?" he asked. She shook her head. "No, I--I don't care anything about them; Sally can do it. Just leave them on the steps."