There came a day--how it burned into my memory!--when Edna was well enough to talk with me. Several days before and I saw that it was not far away, and I awaited it with fierce impatience; she would tell me why she had sent for me and I should be free to go. It was one of those soft gray days of alternating rain and sun that are the specialty of the British climate. Edna, with flowers everywhere in her sitting room, was half reclining in an invalid chair, all manner of rich, delicate silk and lace assistants to comfort, luxury and beauty adorning her or forming background for her lovely face and head. I do not think there is a detail of the room or of her appearance that I could not reproduce, though at the time I was unaware of anything but her voice--her words. I entered, seated myself in the broad low window opposite her. She looked at me a long time, a strange soft expression in her weary eyes--an expression that disquieted me. At last she said: “It is so good to be getting well.” “And you are getting well rapidly,” I said. “You have a wonderful constitution.” “You are glad I am better, Godfrey?” I laughed. “What a foolish question.” “I didn’t know,” said she. “I feared-- I have acted _so_ badly toward you.” “No indeed,” replied I. “Don’t worry about those things. I hope you feel as friendly toward me as I do toward you.” “But you have always been good to me--even when I haven’t deserved it.” This was most puzzling. Said I vaguely, “I guess we’ve both done the best we could. Do you want to tell me to-day why you sent for me? Or don’t you feel strong enough?” “Yes--I wish to tell you to-day. But--it isn’t easy to say. I’m very proud, Godfrey--and when I’ve been in the wrong it’s hard for me to admit.” “Oh, come now, Edna,” said I soothingly. “Let’s not rake up the past. It’s finished--and it has left no hard feeling--at least not in me. Don’t think of anything but of getting well.” She lay gazing out into the gentle rain with the sunshine glistening upon it. A few large tears rolled down her cheeks. “There’s nothing to be unhappy about,” said I. “You are far on the way to health. You are as lovely as ever. And you will get everything you want.” “Oh, it’s so hard to tell you!” she sighed. “Then don’t,” I urged. “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know. I’ll be glad to do it.” She covered her eyes with her thin, beautiful hand. “Love me--love me, Godfrey--as you used to,” she sobbed. I was dumbfounded. It seemed to me I could not have heard aright. I stared at her until she lowered her hand and looked at me. Then I hastily glanced away. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted,” she went on. “I want you to take me back. That was why I sent for you.” I puzzled over this. Was she still out of her mind? Or was there some other and sane--and extremely practical--reason behind this strange turn?--for I could not for an instant imagine she was in sane and sober earnest.