Edith, summoned by her mother, stood for a rigid moment outside Eleanor's door, trying to get herself in hand. In these anxious days, Edith's youth had been threatened by assailing waves of a remorse that at times would have engulfed it altogether, but for that unflinching reasonableness which made her the girl she was. "It may be," Edith had said to herself; "it _may_ be that what I said to her in the garden made her so angry that she tried to kill herself; but why should it have made her angry? I didn't injure her. Besides, she dragged it out of me! I couldn't lie. She said, 'You love him.' I _would_ not lie, and say I didn't! But what harm did it do her?" So she reasoned; but reason did not keep her from suffering. "Did _I_ drive her to it?" Edith said, over and over. So when her mother told her Eleanor wanted to speak to her, she grew a little pale. When she entered Eleanor's room her heart was beating so hard she felt smothered, but she was perfectly matter of fact. "Anything I can do for you, Eleanor?" she said. She stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to the carved bed post. Eleanor looked at her for a silent moment, then gathered herself together. "Edith," she said (she was very hoarse and spoke with difficulty), "I don't want to bother Maurice about--about my accident. So I am going to ask you, please, not to refer to it to him. Not to tell him anything about it. _Anything._ Promise me." "Of course I won't!" Edith said. As she spoke she forgot herself in pity for the scared, haggard face. ("Oh, _was_ it my fault?" she thought, with a real pang.) And before she knew it her coldness was all gone and she was at Eleanor's side; she sat down on the edge of the bed and caught her hand impulsively. "Eleanor," she said, "I've been awfully unhappy, for fear anything I said--that morning--troubled you? Of course there was no sense in talking that way, for either of us. So please forgive me! _Was_ it what I said, that made you--that bothered you, I mean? I'm so unhappy," Edith said, and caught her lip between her teeth to keep it steady; her eyes were bright with tears. "Eleanor, truly I am _nothing_ to--to anybody. Nobody cares a copper for me! Do be kind to me. Oh--I've been awfully unhappy; and I'm _so_ glad you're better." Instantly the smoldering fire broke into flame: "I'm _not_ better," Eleanor said, "and you wouldn't be glad if I were." It was as if she struck her hand upon those generous young lips. Edith sprang to her feet. "Eleanor!" Eleanor sat up in bed, her hands behind her, propping her up; her cheeks were dully red, her eyes glowing. "All this talk about making me unhappy means nothing at all. You have always made me unhappy. And as for anybody's caring for you--they _don't_; you are quite right about that. Quite right! And I want to tell you something else: If anything happens to me, I _want_ Maurice to marry again. But he won't marry you."