“In your eyes and mine he wouldn’t need any excuse for anything he might do,” said Nola, with a sagacity unexpected. “We love him, and we’d love him, right or wrong. Well”—a sigh—“you’ve got a right to love him, and I haven’t. I wouldn’t try to make him care for me now if I could, for I’m different; I’m all emptied out.”
“It takes more than you’ve gone through to empty a human life, Nola. But you have no right to love him; honor and honesty are in the way, friendship not considered at all. You’ll spring up in the sun again after a little while, like fresh grass that’s trodden on, just as happy and light-hearted as before. Let me have this one without any more interference—there are plenty in the world that you would stand heart-high to with your bright little head, just as well as Alan Macdonald.”
“I can’t give him up, the thought of him, and the longing for him, without regret, Frances; I can’t!”
“I wouldn’t have you do it. I want you to have regret, and pain—not too deep nor too lasting, but some corrective pain. Now, go to sleep.”
Frances pressed her back to the pillow, and touched her head with light caress.
“Frances,” she whispered, a new gladness dawning in her voice, “I’ll go and see those poor people, and try to help them—if they’ll let me. Maybe we were wrong—partly, anyhow.”
“That’s better,” Frances encouraged.
“And I’ll try not to care for him, or think about him, even one little bit.”
Frances bent and kissed her. Nola’s arms clung to her neck a little, holding her while she whispered in her ear.