There came a day when he sat, wrapped in blankets, in an armchair near the window, where he could see the grass waving in the sunlight on the slope above the cottage, and the pines bending in the breeze high up the hill. Marion, near him, her hands folded in her lap, looked sometimes out of the window but more often at him, though his eyes avoided hers. She was scarcely less pale than he, and very tired and worn. Despite Hillyer's protestations she had slept little in the ten days of Philip's peril; for she would trust no one but herself to do with iron determination exactly what the doctor had commanded. Philip's pitiable pleading for water in his semi-delirium her love alone was strong enough to resist. But this was the last day of her watch over him. In an hour she must go. She had frankly asked Robert to let her have this last afternoon alone with Philip; and had promised him that he should then have the answer to every question that he had loyally put aside for her. They sat a long time silent, while the shadow of the cottage lengthened on the grass. "It wasn't worth it, Miss Gaylord," Haig said at length. "I--I don't understand," she faltered. "Doctor Norris tells me that you saved my life." "I'm glad if he thinks I helped a little," she answered, trying to smile. "He left me no room for doubt. Very plain-spoken is Doctor Norris." "I'm afraid he exaggerated," she protested gently. "No." "But Jim--" "Jim's all right in his way, but he couldn't have done it." "I am paid," she said simply. "Paid?" "Yes. Knowing that you live." "No. You think you mean that, perhaps, but you don't." "I don't mean what?" she asked in surprise. "You don't mean that you are paid." She turned away, and looked out the window, her heart throbbing. "I must tell you something, Miss Gaylord," he went on resolutely. "I'm not grateful." "Not grateful?" "I mean, I'm not glad to owe my life to you." "But I haven't asked--" "No. Not directly." He hesitated a moment. "It's like this: If a man had saved my life, I could pay him. There would be a clasp of the hand, and a look from man to man. Or I should save his life in turn, or do him some service. Or--there are other ways. There's Pete's way and Jim's way--of paying. But I can't pay you in any of the ways I could pay a man. And I can't pay in the only way a woman knows." "Don't," she cried. "Don't, please!" She was right, he thought. He was doing it brutally. He must try another method. There followed a long silence, while he tried to frame a speech that would tell her, and would not hurt too much; for now, strangely, he found himself reluctant to give her pain, even to put himself in a false light before her--to be misunderstood. At last he leaned toward her--forced her to meet his gaze. "Could you--if you had ever loved one man with all your heart and soul--held him as dear to you as life--dearer than life itself--without whom life would be impossible--could you ever love another?"