Thus dismissed, she rose, her eyes burning like deep opals in the parchment setting of her skin. "Life is so cruel!" she said. "I have wished a thousand times that love had never come to me. Love means only sorrow at the end. Ben has been my life, my only interest--and now--as he begins to forget--Oh, I can't bear it! It will kill me!" She sank back into her chair, and, burying her face, sobbed with such passion that her slight frame shook in the tempest of it. Haney turned and looked at her in silence--profoundly stirred to pity by her sobs, no longer doubting the reality of her despair. When he spoke his voice was brokenly sweet and very tender. "'Tis a bitter world, miss, and me heart bleeds for such as you. 'Tis well ye have a hope of paradise, for, if all you say is true, ye must go from this world cheated and hungry like meself. Ye have one comfort that I have not--'tis not your own doing. Ye've not misspent your life as I have done. What does it all show but that life is a game where each man, good or bad, takes his chance. The cards fall against you and against me without care of what we are. I can only say I take me chances as I take the rain and the sun." Her paroxysm passed and she rose again, drawing her veil closely over her face. "Good-bye. We will never meet again." "Don't say that," he said, struggling painfully to his feet. "Never is a long time, and good-bye a cruel, sad word to say. Let's call it 'so long' and better luck." "You are not angry with me?" she turned to ask. "Not at all, miss--I thank ye fer opening me eyes to me selfishness." "Good-bye." "So long! And may ye have better luck in the new deal, miss." As she turned at the gate she saw him standing as she had left him, his brow white and sad and stern, his shoulders drooping as if his strength and love of life had suddenly been withdrawn. While still in this mood she sent word to Ben that she wished to see him at once, and he responded without delay. He was appalled by the change in her. Her interview with Haney had profoundly weakened her, chilled her. She was like some exquisite lamp whose golden flame had grown suddenly dim, and Fordyce was filled with instant, remorseful tenderness. His sense of duty sprang to arms, and without waiting for her to begin he said: "I hate to think of you as a pensioner in this house. You should be in your own home--our home--where I could take care of you. Come, let me take you out of this private hospital--that's what it is." She struggled piteously to assure him that she would be back to par in a few days, but he was thoroughly alarmed and refused to listen to further delay. "Your surroundings are bad, you need a change."