She went on gravely, now, in quite a Quakerish fashion:
“I have desired to thank thee for thy assistance to me a week ago to-day. There is no telling where such injuries may end if they do not receive prompt attention at the beginning. On that day—I was so—so—full of pain—that I forgot to thank thee. Now, at last, I do. It was very thoughtless, and I have looked for thee every day with the purpose of thanking thee—I had even thought of writing thee a note.”
Rem laughed with real embarrassment—a new emotion to him.
“I don’t believe that I am awake,” he said.
She turned her head away, and the long bonnet hid her face from him.
“The pain was so great that I forgot—”
In reaching for something—perhaps a handkerchief—Rem did not know where such a thing might be concealed in such a toilette—her hand came in contact with his, and his pounced upon it instinctively. For a moment it struggled and then was regretfully released.
“The pain was—so great—” she was repeating dreamily, and Rem could see a part of one cheek now. It bloomed with the very roses of June. “The—pain—was—so—great—”
“There was no pain,” laughed brutal John Rem. “And it couldn’t have hurt after the first minute.”
She suddenly faced him, and he was altogether bewildered by the smiling happiness in her eyes.