She bent forward, her elbows on her knees, and stared down at him intently.
"I'm not too sure of that, Reed. You are growing thin, and you look tired. No wonder, from what Mr. Duncan has told us. Is it quite worth while, though?"
"It is."
"But why?" she urged, with sudden recklessness of any pain her insistence might be causing him.
He reddened.
"Let's leave the dead past out of it, Olive. What's the use of going over the old ground again? You know my one ambition is to make whatever is left of my life a gift worth while."
"Gift?" she queried steadily. "To whom, Reed?"
"Its Creator, when the time comes," he answered, with the slow difficulty with which a strong man always touches such a theme. "Who else?"
His sudden question, answering as it did to her own thoughts, astounded her. Her face flushed, lighted, filled itself with a dazzling radiance which, for the moment, Reed was powerless to interpret. For just that single moment, Olive caught in her breath and held it. Then,—
"Why, to me," she answered simply. "Reed dear, you have made it wonderfully well worth the asking. May I have it for my very own?"