Saidie shrugged her shoulders.
"You shall tell me—what is he to Bella?"
"He is a good and noble man, and let me tell you there ain't too many knocking around. If she lives to get over this he will make her his wife."
And there was silence—a silence in which John Chetwynd read clearly his own heart at last, and stood face to face with facts—facts stripped of false adornments—naked, convincing.
Then he strode across the room and entered that in which Bella lay.
She was asleep, and he drew his chair close to the bedside and fixed his eyes on the wan, thin face, fever flushed, and fought the fiercest battle of his life with his inner self; and when the struggle was over, Pride lay in tatters and Love was conqueror.
She slept at intervals almost the whole of that day. Waking late in the afternoon, her eyes fell on the silent watcher by her side, and she smiled happily, contentedly.
Saidie bent over her and whispered a word or two.
"No—no," cried Bella vehemently; "send him away. I don't want to see him."
"But he is so anxious, dear."