Grace returned his kiss.
She misread the meaning of those last few words, and took them to be only the expression of anxiety for one who was his guest, even under such sorrowful conditions, and Valentine did not enlighten her further, did not tell her that the girl sitting, heavy-eyed, with a breaking heart, beside her brother’s bed, was to him the sweetest, dearest creature the world could hold.
It was so hard for him to stand outside the door and know that she was within, fighting down so grim and terrible a grief. He longed to range himself beside her, to take from her the weight and the burning anguish of this moment.
At such a time his size, his great physical strength, seemed almost a mockery. Of what use to be so big, so powerful, when he could not even stand forward and protect one whom he loved from all sorrow?
Grace stole back into the silent room, and whispered to Polly her news.
“He will be with your mother in a few hours,” she said.
Polly thanked her softly, and turned her eyes from gazing on Harold’s white face.
“Don’t let her come here. It may be cruel in one sense, but it is kind in another. I want her to remember him as she has always known him, not as he is now. He used to be such a pretty boy,” Polly said, slowly, as if to herself.
She refused to leave his room even to rest for an hour.
“The time is short,” she told Grace. “It may be hours and it may be only moments. I must be here in case he needs me. He has recognized me, and just before you came I thought he smiled. I am not tired or hungry. I only want to be with him.”