"I thought so," Grange said rather sadly. "It would go hard with her if—if—"
Muriel's dark eyes flashed swift entreaty. "Oh, don't say it! Don't think it! I believe it would kill her."
"She is stronger, though?" he questioned almost sharply.
"Yes, yes, much stronger. Only—not strong enough for that. Captain
Grange, it simply couldn't happen."
They had reached a gate at the end of the field. Grange stopped before it, and spoke with sudden, deep feeling.
"If it does happen, Muriel," he said, using her Christian name quite unconsciously, "we shall have to stand by her, you and I. You won't leave her, will you? You would be of more use to her than I. Oh, it's—it's damnable to see a woman in trouble and not be able to comfort her."
He brought his ungloved hand down upon the gate-post with a violence that drew blood; then, seeing her face of amazement, thrust it hastily behind him.
"I'm a fool," he said, with his shy, semi-apologetic smile. "Don't mind me, Miss Roscoe. You know, I—I'm awfully fond of Daisy, always was. My people were her people, and when they died we were the only two left, as it were. Of course she was married by that time, and there are some other relations somewhere. But we've always hung together, she and I. You can understand it, can't you?"
Muriel fancied she could, but his vehemence startled her none the less. She had not deemed him capable of such intensity.
"I suppose you feel almost as if she were your sister," she remarked, groping half-unconsciously for an explanation.