"If you only knew how awful I felt about this," Dicky murmured, contritely, and, as I raised my eyes to look at him, his own contracted as with pain.
"It's a fine mess I've brought you into by my carelessness this summer, but I swear I didn't dream—"
I laid my hand on his lips.
"Don't, sweetheart," I pleaded. "It is enough for me to know that you are safe in my arms. Nothing else in the world matters. Just rest and get well for me."
He kissed the hand against his lips, then reached up the unbandaged arm, and with gentle fingers pulled mine away.
"But there is one thing I must talk about," he said solemnly, "something you must do for me, Madge, for I cannot get up from here to see to it. It's a hard thing to ask you to do, but you are so brave and true, I know you will understand. Tell me, is that poor girl going to die?"
"I—I don't know, Dicky," I faltered, salving my conscience with the thought that he must not be excited with the knowledge of Grace Draper's true condition.
"Poor girl," he sighed. "I never dreamed she looked at things in the light she did, but I feel guilty anyhow, responsible. She must have the best of care, Madge, best physicians, best nurses, everything. I must meet all expenses, even to the ones which will be necessary if she should die."
He brought out the last words fearfully. Little drops of moisture stood on his forehead. I saw that the shock of the girl's terrible act had unnerved him.
Nerving myself to be as practical and matter-of-fact as possible, I wiped the moisture from his brow with my handkerchief and patted his cheek soothingly.