He remembered her eyes—deep, soft blue eyes that shone bright and mysterious with love for the little boy—so often such a bad, self-willed little boy—and he thought of the hurt in those eyes. It was his very worst punishment in the long ago—to read the pain and sorrow in those eyes.
"No, no, no!" he murmured. "Not her eyes—not mother's! Oh, I am glad that she did not live to know—" He stopped abruptly and faced the other, speaking quietly:
"Mr. Appleton, I am not a criminal—not a fugitive from justice—as you may have guessed. But I have been an—an awful fool!" The older man arose and extended his hand:
"Good-by, Bill. You better sleep now. I will see you in the morning."
As the door closed behind Appleton, the pleasant-voiced nurse appeared at the bedside. She straightened the covers, patted the pillows into shape, and fed the patient medicine out of a spoon. She hesitated when she finished and smiled down at him.
"Would you like to send any messages," she asked—"telegrams, to let your people know you are safe?"
Young Carmody returned the smile. The nurse looked into his face and knew that behind the smile was sadness rather than mirth.
"No," he said; "there is no one to tell." She leaned over and laid soft fingers on his bandaged brow.
"Isn't—isn't there a real Ethel—somewhere?" He did not resent the question of the sweet-faced nurse.
"Yes," he answered, "there is a real Ethel—but she would not care. Nobody cares."