'Yes, perhaps he thinks you could not bear the truth,' Becky assented very gently.
Her low, feeling tones brought a lump to Noakes's throat. He felt the sympathy which quivered in her voice, and it nearly unmanned him; but he misunderstood her meaning. He thought that she felt with him the sting of being deprived of full knowledge of his condition, the hurt of their doubting his strength. That Becky meant something far different, he might have known from her humble acquiescence, and the sudden touch of her hand on his arm.
'I've been trying to think it out,' Noakes said, his voice low at first, roughening and increasing in volume as he spoke, 'but here I am, unweakened in mind and body, and put aside—Not to see, never to see for myself the beautiful things about me; shut out from everything; with power to do, and ability to appreciate, yet put out in darkness; never to—O Becky, you, I can't ever see you again!'
'Don't! You mustn't, please!'
'I didn't intend to speak so to you. I haven't the right. You must pardon me.' He was silent a moment. 'I came to say something else.'
He turned his head about impatiently, calling upon his bandaged eyes to perform their function.
'Is it dark yet?' he asked.
'We are in the gloaming,' Becky answered softly.
Noakes shut his lips, taking counsel of his powers of control before he spoke.
'Becky,' he began, and gave a tired little sigh. 'Let me call you "Becky" to-day.'