Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to see him. He smiled sorrowfully and said: "To what end, Marmion? I am a drifting wreck. It will only shock her." I think he thought she would not love him now if he lived—a crippled man.
"But is this noble? Is it just to her?" said I.
After a long time he answered: "You are right again, quite right. I am selfish. When one is shaking between life and death, one thinks most of one's self."
"She will help to bring you back from those places, Roscoe."
"If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, Marmion? Promise me that." I promised.
I went to her. She was very calm and womanly. She entered the room, went quietly to his bedside, and, sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was pitiful and anxious, but her words were brave.
"My dearest," she said, "I am so sorry. But you will soon be well, so we must be as patient and cheerful as we can."
His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then he said: "I hope I may get well."
"This was the shadow over you," she ventured. "This was your presentiment of trouble—this accident."
"Yes, this was the shadow."