"I wish I could die—too."
"My poor little Ethel."
"I suppose there is no chance of that. People—like me—don't die. They only suffer—and suffer—and break their hearts—and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you were kind to me, you would give me something to make me die."
She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Lesley's bosom. "Oh, why must he go—without me—without me?" she cried. And then she burst out suddenly into bitter weeping, and with Lesley's arms about her she wept away some of the "perilous stuff" of misery which had seemed likely to destroy the balance of her brain. When those tears came her reason was saved, and Lesley was wise enough to be reassured and not alarmed by them.
She was very much exhausted when the burst of tears was over, and Lesley was allowed to feed her with strong soup, which she took submissively from her friend. "You won't go?" she whispered, when the meal was done. And Lesley whispered back: "I will not go, darling, so long as you want me here."
"I want you—always." Then with a gleam of returning strength and memory: "What was it they said about your father?"
Lesley shivered.
"Never mind, Ethel, dear," she said.
"But—I know—I remember. That he was—a—oh, I can't say the word. But that is not true."
"I know it is not true. It is a foolish, cruel mistake."