"Ah, so dear!" she answered.
Then, after a moment's pause, she went on swiftly:
"Oh, you can understand what it was—surely you can see—you are so good! He was everything to me, absolutely everything! The thought of him kept me from greater sin! I was nearly blind with weariness, and the way was getting dimmer and dimmer to my eyes; but his laugh showed me where the right road lay, and, when I found it again, his steps kept me company! Oh, can you think what it is to see the only creature—the only living thing in all the world—that loves you—die?" She looked at him, an interrogation so poignant as to be imperative in her eyes.
"Yes," he said, "we are two lonely souls, Myron. In all the wide earth there is none who cares whether I live or die."
"I am so sorry," she said. "Only, you are so good you can have friends for the seeking. As for me, I am not fit to be any one's friend. I had one friend here, but he is dead too"—she added the last sentence with a strange, swift sense of justice. Even though Homer was dead, she could not bear that he be classed with those others who had been so cruel.
"Yes," answered Hardman, "I heard of him."
"Did she tell you that he died to save My's life?" she asked.
"Yes, she told me," he answered.
There was a pause, then Myron said:
"It was so good of you to come!" He noticed the harsh tones of her voice.