Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day. "Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on. "Why?" It was a cry in the night. Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands. "You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully. "I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything." "To-day?" "Only to-night." "It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your heart," nodded Beatrice. "Not my heart--just my eyes," returned Marjory. "Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart that you can open Peter's eyes." "I--I don't understand." "Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice. [Illustration: "Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.] "No. No--not that." "You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us knew how much--until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he would not talk--because he kept it a secret all to himself that this came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he grew stronger--all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work." "He--he blamed me?" Beatrice was still clinging to her hands. "No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame those we love, do we?" "But we hurt those we love!" "Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like that, did you?" Marjory withdrew her hands. "He had no right!" she cried. Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking aloud. "I have not found love--yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a question of right when people loved. I thought it--it just happened." Marjory drew a quick breath. "Yes; it is like that," she admitted. Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right.