She made no answer.
"You are in trouble, Kitty. Can I not comfort you a little? I would give a great deal to be able to do it. But the day for that is gone by."
"Yes, it is gone by," echoed Kitty once more in the tones that never used to be so sad.
"It is selfish to talk about myself when you have this great loss to bear," he pursued; "and yet I must tell you what has happened to me lately, so that you may understand what perhaps seems strange to you. Am I altered, Kitty? Do I look changed to your eyes in any way?"
"No," she answered, hesitatingly; "I think not. But people do not change very easily in appearance, do they? Whatever happens, they are the same. I am not at all altered, they tell me, since—since you were here."
"Why should you be?" said Rupert, vaguely touched, he knew not why, by the pathetic quality that had crept into her voice. "Even a great sorrow, like this one, does not change us in a single day. But I have had some weeks in which to think of my loss; small and personal though it may seem to you."
"What loss?" said Kitty.
"Is it no loss to think that I shall never see your face again, Kitty? I am blind."
"Blind!" She said the word again, with a strange thrill in her voice. "Blind!"
"Not quite, just yet," said Rupert, quietly, but with a resolute cheerfulness. "I know that you are standing there, and I can still grope my way amongst the tables and chairs in a room, without making many mistakes: but I cannot see your sweet eyes and mouth, Kitty, and I shall never look upon the purple hills again. Do you remember that we planned to climb Craig Vohr next summer for the sake of the fine view? Not much use my attempting it now, I am afraid—unless you went with me, and told me what you saw."