She tried to say something then, and her voice died in one of those same strange gasps, but she tried a second time and succeeded. "I suppose that nothing could be done?" she questioned.
"What would you do?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said.
He smiled a little oddly. "I am afraid that we should be fools," he said; "those fools that rush in, you know. It is beginning to come back to me how Alva looked and how she spoke when I took her to see the house. It all had no meaning to me then, but it has meaning now. It comes back to me more and more. Perhaps you and I are—are—not up to seeing it quite as she does. Perhaps. It's possible."
"That is what she says over and over—that I cannot understand," Lassie said, faintly.
"I can't understand either, but—perhaps she does. I can understand that."
"I am glad that you know, anyway;" her tone was sweet and confiding. He looked down into her pretty eyes.
"I am, too," he said, heartily.
"But I hope that it wasn't very wrong for me to tell you; it seemed as if I could not bear it alone!"
"Don't worry about that; Alva shall never know. And now, if you cannot bear it (as you say) again, you know that you can come to me and say what you like. We shall have that comfort."