"Ah, I am very selfish. Of course you ought to go, if going will lead to a career for you. Although one can't help feeling that you will be, somehow wasted in mere commercial pursuits. Yes, yes, of course, I am wrong!" she added, hastily anticipating his rejoinder. "It is all very proper and Spartan, no doubt. But I am not in the least Spartan, you know." "People usually find it easy to be Spartan for their friends. Very few keep their stoicism for themselves, and their soft-heartedness for others--as you do!" He glanced involuntarily at Martin Bransby, as he spoke; and she followed his glance with instant quickness of understanding. "How do you think he is looking? You do not think he seems worse, do you?" she said. "No, indeed, no!" "I was afraid, when you talked about stoicism----" "No, I only meant that you always show great courage when Mr. Bransby is ill." "I don't think I am naturally courageous. But love gives courage." "Yes,--the genuine sort of love." "Although it makes one frightened, too, in one way. I am sometimes very uneasy about him." She turned a gaze of profound tenderness on her husband's sleeping face. "I trust your uneasiness is needless," said Owen. "Mr. Bransby seems to be going on well, does he not?" "Oh yes, I hope so. But he does not gain strength. His rest is very troubled, and he talks in his sleep. And I think his spirits are much less cheerful than they were. He has a great regard for you. He will approve of what you are doing, I know. But he will be as sorry as the rest of us to think of your going so far away." She said all this in her usual sweet voice, and with her usual soft grace of manner. Then all at once she broke down in a sudden passion of tears, and burying her face in her handkerchief, she sobbed out, "If you go to South America he will never see you again;--never, never! I know his days are numbered. They think they keep me in ignorance; but I know it, I know it!" Owen was melted by her grief. In the eyes of sound-hearted manhood, beauty, while it attracts, adds a sort of sacredness to a pure woman. To see that lovely face convulsed with weeping made an impression on his senses, such as he might have felt at seeing an exquisite work of art defaced or mutilated. And beyond that, there was the warm human sympathy, and the feeling of compassionate protection due to her sex. "Dearest Mrs. Bransby," he said, looking at her piteously, "pray, pray take comfort. Oh, how I wish that I could give you any help or comfort!" She continued to weep softly and silently for a little while longer. Then she wiped away her tears, and spoke with calmness. "Forgive me! It was selfish to distress you," she said. "But it has relieved my heart to cry a little. And you have always been so friendly. I have as great reliance on you as if I had known you all my life." "As far as the will goes, you cannot over-rate my friendship. But the power, alas! is small; or rather none."