But he was not to be so put off. “I must see him,” he said, and he told himself that he must not be moved by her pleadings. It was natural that she should fear, but he must not fear—and indeed he had passed beyond fear. “No, dear,” as she began to protest, “you must let me judge of this.” He held her hands firmly as he looked down at her. “I have suffered enough, I have suffered as much as I can bear. I have had no sight of you and no word of you for months, and I cannot endure this longer. Every hour of every day I have felt myself a coward, a deserter, a do-nothing! I have had to bear this, and I have borne it. But now—now that your father is downstairs——” “You can still do nothing,” she said. “Believe, believe me,” earnestly, “you can do nothing. Dear Clement,” and the tenderness which she strove to suppress betrayed itself in her tone, “you must be guided by me, you must indeed. I am with my father, and I know, I know that he cannot bear it now. I know that it would be cruel to tell him now. He is blind. Blind, Clement! And he trusts me, he has to trust me. To tell him now would be to destroy his faith in me, to shock him and to frighten him—irreparably. You must go back now—now at once.” “What?” he cried. “And do nothing? And lose you?” The pathos of her appeal had passed him by, and only his love and his jealousy spoke. “No,” she answered soberly, “you will not lose me, if you have patience.” “But have you patience?” “I must have.” “And I am to do nothing?” He spoke with energy, almost with anger. “To go on doing nothing? I am to stand by and—and play the coward still—go on playing it?” Her face quivered, for he hurt her. He was selfish, he was cruel; yet she understood, and loved him for his cruelty. But she answered him firmly. “Nothing until I send for you,” she said. “You do not think, Clem. He is blind! He is dependent on me for everything. If I tell him in his weakness that I have deceived him, he will lose faith in me, he will distrust me, he will distrust everyone. He will be alone in his darkness.” It began to come home to him. “Blind?” he repeated. “Yes.” “But for good? Do you mean—quite blind?” “Ah, I don’t know!” she cried, unable to control her voice. “I don’t know. Dr. Farmer does not know, the physician who came from Birmingham to see him does not know. They say that they have hopes—and I don’t know! But I fear.” He was silent then, touched with pity, feeling at length the pathos of it, feeling it almost as she felt it. But after a pause, during which she stood watching his face, “And if he does not recover his sight?” “God forbid!” “I say God forbid too, with all my heart. Still, if he does not—what then? When may I——” “When the time comes,” she answered, “and of that I must be the judge. Yes, Clement,” with resolution. “I must be the judge, for I alone know how he is, and I alone can choose the occasion.”