“Forgive my unmanliness,” he said; “it was kind of you to come to me.”
“You look very ill, Louis; can’t I bring you something to refresh you, or will you lie down?”
“We shall see; is there anything you wish to ask me?
“Nothing.”
After a pause he said,—
“You must not be hopeless; he is in good hands, and everything that can be done will be done. Is he resting now?”
“Yes; if to breathe like that is to rest. Oh, Louis, when I think how for months he has suffered alone, it almost drives me crazy.”
“Why think of it, then? Or, if you must, remember that in his surpassing unselfishness he saved you much anxiety; for you could not have helped him.”
“Not with our sympathy?”
“Not him, Ruth; to know that you suffered for him was—would have been his crowning sorrow. Is there anything I can do now?”