He struck his hand on the bedpost to drive home the prophecy. “Yes, dear,” she whispered, faint with a new spasm of pain as the jar of his hand’s impact shook the bed. “Oh!” he laughed, nervously, “I was so scared, girl. So scared! It seemed like the world was tumblin’ about my ears. If I’d come here an’ found--” He could not go on. “I know, dear, I know!” she told him, stroking his bristled red hair as she spoke, “It would be terribly lonely for you if--if anything happened to me. You are so strong in some ways. Yet in others you are a child. No one understands you except me. No one else can break through the rough outer-world shell to the big gentle boy that hides inside it. If I were not here with you, no one would ever look for that boy. No one would even suspect he was there. And by and by he would die for lack of companionship. The hard rough armor would go on through life. But the soul,--the boy I love,--would be dead. Oh, you need me, dear! You _need_ me! The poor helpless friendly little boy behind the brutal shell,--the real _you_,--needs me. He can’t live without me. No one else will love him, or even know he is in his hiding place waiting and longing to be made friends with, _I can’t let you go_!” The soft voice broke, despite the gallant spirit’s commands. And the tone went through Conover like white-hot steel. “Don’t talk so, Dey!” he implored, “Don’t speak like you weren’t goin’ to get well. You _are_, I tell you!” “Yes, dear,” she assented once more, petting the big awkward hand that clung to her. “Of course you are,” he protested valiantly, “It’s crazy of me to a’ thought anything else. An’ I didn’t, really. You’ll be as well as ever you was, in a week or less. I’m havin’ nurses tel’graphed for, too. The best there are. An’,” a veritable inspiration crossing the brain he was racking for further words of encouragement, “An’ I’ve got a present for you. A dandy one. Guess what it is.” “Flowers?” she asked, forcing an interest into her query. “Flowers!” he echoed in fine scorn, “Somethin’ nicer’n all the flowers that ever happened! See!” He fished from his waistcoat pocket a little box wrapped with tissue paper that was none the cleaner for a week’s companionship with tobacco-dust and lead pencils. “Oh, let me open it!” she commanded, with a vestige of her old sweet imperiousness. “That’s the best part of a present.” She undid the grimy paper, opened the box and gazed in childish delight at the gorgeous diamond in its platinum setting. “I knew you’d like it,” he chuckled, “Han’somest ring in New York. From the best store there, too. See the name on the box-cover. How’s _that_ for an engagement ring?” “It’s beautiful! Beautiful!” she murmured. She slipped it on her third finger, whence it hung heavy and ridiculously loose. “Maybe it’s a little too large,” he confessed, “But we’ll have that fixed easily enough. I didn’t want to ask your size beforehand for fear you might suspect somethin’. So I had to guess at it.”