Florence watched Marion anxiously for a moment. She was extremely worried about the state of nervous depression in which she had found her friend on returning to Chicago, and she was trying to think of some way in which she could help her. She leaned over her and slowly stroked her rich black hair. Marion looked up and smiled faintly. Then she seized Florence's hand and began to sob nervously. "You love me, don't you Florence; you love me, don't you?" she said between the sobs.
"You don't need to ask that, Marion."
"I know it," she replied; "I think you are the only person in the world who understands me, the only person who loves me."
"You are wrong in that, my dear, I am sure."
"No, I am not," she moaned. "I want love, I must have love. O, I can't live without it!"
Florence stroked Marion's head again, and tried to soothe her hysterical sobbing. "Dear," she said softly, "there is one man who would die for you if it would bring you happiness. I am sure of it."
Marion turned her head away and did not reply. Florence felt pity for her friend's unhappy state of mind, which she considered was, in a great measure, self-produced, but she knew it was useless to talk to Marion about her husband, as she was a woman who could not be influenced by persuasive words. Florence wanted to help her friend to understand the danger she was in, but she could not see a way which promised success; so, thinking that the best course was to divert her mind from herself, she took Marion's hand and said cheerfully, "I have a secret to tell you, dear, but you must sit up and look pleased."
"I hope it is interesting," said Marion somewhat mournfully. "I haven't heard a secret for months."
"Guess what it is."
"Is it an engagement?"