"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your heart," nodded Beatrice.
"Not my heart—just my eyes," returned Marjory.
"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart that you can open Peter's eyes."
"I—I don't understand."
"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.
"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.
"No. No—not that."
"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us knew how much—until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he would not talk—because he kept it a secret all to himself that this came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he grew stronger—all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work."