He himself lost heart suddenly.
"I shall never walk again," he said, one afternoon, as they sat together in the big room.
The days were very short, for it was mid-December, and the lamps had been brought. They had been out in the carriage, and when Taquisara had lifted him from his seat, he had made a desperate attempt to move his legs, a sudden effort into which he had thrown all the concentrated hope and will that were still in him. But there had been neither motion nor sensation, and all at once he had felt that it was all over, forever.
Veronica looked at him quickly, and he was watching her face. He saw no contradiction there of what he had said, but only a little surprise that he should have said it.
"You may not be able to walk as soon as we thought," she answered gently. "But that is no reason why you should never walk at all."
"I am afraid it is," he said.
She stroked his hand, as she often did, and her eyes wandered from his face to the other side of the room, and back again.
"I have been trying very hard to get well," he continued presently.
"Harder than any one knows."
"I know," Veronica answered. "You are so brave!"
"Brave? No. I am desperate. Do you think I do not know what it must be to you, to be tied to a hopeless cripple like me?"