The cripple had noticed a change in Carry long before it had been visible to her father, almost before she had become conscious of it herself. At first it had been merely an occasional absent manner while talking to him, a kindling of the eye, a little flush of colour, as if she were thinking of some pleasant thing. Then James had sighed deeply, for he felt that she was in love. It was a pain to him to know that. He knew she could not be for him, he had never thought it. But as long as she remained as she was he had at least the pleasure of seeing her often, of knowing that she liked him very much, that she pitied him, and accepted the homage which he paid her. If she married, all this would be over. She would be no longer able to come to see him; the visits which were the great happiness of his life would cease, and in the love of a husband she would soon forget the poor cripple, who would have gladly laid down his life to save her a pang. But, as time went on, the change in Carry had deepened and altered, and the lad saw that she was anxious and unhappy. James in vain tried to find some solution of this. The wax-flowers made but small progress, and the books on mathematics were laid aside. That Carry should love anyone and not be loved in return seemed to him impossible. She was so perfectly different from the few women he had ever seen that he thought every one must see Carry in the light of an exceptional being, as he did himself. What then could it be which could make her unhappy?
A few days after her conversation with her father Carry went into the Holls'. Mother was out, and the children were all away. Carry drew up a chair to the side of the cripple's table, and, after the first greeting, sat silently watching him as he worked. James broke the silence by putting down his work and saying suddenly,—
“Oh, Miss Carry, I do so grieve to see that you are not happy.”
“Not happy, James!” Carry said, starting from her reverie and colouring deeply; “not happy! What makes you think such an extraordinary thing as that?”
“There is no thinking about it, Miss Carry,” the boy said, sadly; “I am as sure of it as I am that I am sitting here. I have watched your face for so many years that I can read it as I can an open book. Oh, Miss Carry, I am miserable to see that you are sad, and that I can do nothing. Had I been like other men I might perhaps have made you happy. I would have made a place and a name for myself, and I would have loved you so much that you could not have helped loving me a little in return. But that was not to be. I am a cripple, and my love for you is as the love I might have for a dear sister. It is hard on me then, to know that you are not happy, and to be able to do nothing but sit here helpless, when I would so willingly give my life if it could do you good.”
Carry had sat pale and quiet while he was speaking. Then she took his hand, and said,
“It is better as it is, James. I should never have made such a wife as you ought to have had. I have always known that you loved me, always, James, and as a brother I shall always love you. But had you been a brother, had you been well and strong, you could have done no good here, James. But you must not think I am unhappy,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully; “I am rather worried, but it will soon be over now, and then I shall be very happy. I will tell you then, James; you shall be one of the first to hear it. You will always love me, James, whatever comes, won't you?” she asked, wistfully, as she rose.
“Always, Carry, till I die.”
“You will never judge me harshly, whatever people say, James?”