“Well, Mrs. Low goes home with her daughter.” Here she touched her hands together impulsively.
“You both are going; that leaves me alone.”
“If thoughts count for anything, you will never be alone.”
“How am I to know that?”
“You have the word of Glenn Andrews,” he said quickly; “besides you have a glorious future to look forward to. You have attained! What happiness is there like unto it? Among the many desires of my heart, the first is of your happiness, which I believe lies through your art. I am proud for you. Let me have one comfort before we part. Promise me that you will not disappoint me in my hopes for you. Your success has come high.”
“Well, your future, tell me of that and what your art has cost you.”
“What I have suffered is too late to discuss. One can rate truly only as far as one has gone. I cannot see as far ahead for myself as for my friends.”
“I can see for you.” She spoke slowly, and with difficulty. “Not only perfect health, but laurels. I hope my little spot in your heart may not be entirely shadowed by the lustre of that hour.” Her composure was returning. “I shall miss you; I want you to know that I appreciate the value of your friendship, of which I stood in need. You have helped me by your fond belief in me.”
He didn’t raise his head, but his hand.
“Oh, I have done so little; don’t shame me. You have been taking care of me instead. You have made my life richer—deeper—brought back some of the old faith in my own ideals that was gradually being crushed out. I can understand how men can be forced to such a height that falling would seem too far and hard. I wish I could feel that I had brought half the sunlight into your life as you have into mine.”