“My arm is a little troublesome,” he replied, evasively; then, collecting his thoughts with an effort, he said: “But I must not be selfish, Vane. You will find it dull work sitting with an invalid. I feel so angry with myself for being so clumsy. Just fancy, Vane—this is the first time I have been ill in my life!”
“Then we must do our best to cheer you, Cousin Stuart,” Vane responded, a faint color mounting to her cheeks at the last words. What could they mean but that this illness kept him from her side? “Come,” she added, brightly—“let me amuse you, read to you, or do something. I assure you, Cousin Stuart, I consider it a pleasure. I would do anything for you, believe me.”
Stuart looked at her as she drew up another chair and sunk into it, giving him a frank, affectionate glance. A sudden thought flashed into his mind, and then died away.
“You look upon me as useless,” she observed, with a smile. “I mean to upset that theory altogether.”
“Useless!” echoed Stuart. “Indeed, Vane, you are quite wrong.”
“Then let me help you,” Vane said, suddenly. “I see plainly, Stuart, something is troubling you; it is not only the arm. Come—I shall begin to be jealous of Sir Douglas, to be afraid that you will trust in no one but him. Will you not let me be your friend as well as your cousin?”
Stuart half rose in his chair.
“My friend!” he repeated; then he sunk back again. “Yes, Vane, if you will be my friend.”
“Friendship is not an empty term with me,” Miss Charteris observed, slowly. “Since you will let me be your friend, I must act as such. See”—extending her hand—“let us seal the contract—look upon me as your chum, your sister, as well as your friend and cousin.”
Stuart grasped her hand.