“No,” she said breathlessly. “You said I would get well—always said it. And I knew that you knew, and I trusted you.”
“Doctors must do those things,” he pleaded, “because it keeps up the patient’s courage. There is no medicine like hope.”
“I have never thought till now,” she halted, “that I would not get well.”
“I have known it for a long time.”
“And you have been so sweet and brave so as to—”
“No, I have deceived you only that you might live a little longer.”
They were silent for a long time. Then she reached out and touched his hand.
“Then you mean,” she whispered, “that—”
He closed her lips, and she understood.
“Poor doctor! It is dreadful to make you the bearer of such a message.” She thought silently a long while. “At first I was inclined to be cross at you for deceiving me. But now—” a tear presently stole down each pale young cheek “—but now,” she ended in a whisper, “it is wonderful—beautiful—very, very beautiful! One can hardly believe that there are people who willingly bear the sorrows of others.”