"Try to be more hopeful," he urged. "The doctor said there was absolutely no injury except the shock. I believe she will get well, Lois."
"Oh, you don't know her," Lois answered. "You don't know how frail she is. And then there's Mr. Denner! It is the responsibility of it that kills me, Giff! I cannot get away from it for one single minute."
They had walked along the road where the accident had taken place, and Lois shivered as she saw the trampled grass, though it had been her wish that they should come this way.
"Oh," she said, putting her hands over her eyes, "life can never look the same to me, even if they get well!"
"No," Gifford said, "I understand that. But it may have a new sweetness of gratitude, Lois."
When they came to the gap in the hedge which was the outlet for the rectory path, Gifford held aside the twigs for her to enter.
"Let us sit down on the stone bench a little while," he said. "This is where poor little Mr. Denner sat that afternoon. Oh," he added in a lower tone, "just think from what a grief he may have saved us! I feel as though I could never be able to show him my gratitude." Then he looked at the transplanted bunch of violets, which was fresh and flourishing, and was silent.
Lois sat down a little reluctantly. The memory of that June night, nearly a year ago, flashed into her mind; she felt the color creep up to her forehead. "Oh," she thought, "how contemptible I am to have any thought but grief,—how shallow I am, how cruel!"
And to punish herself for this, she rushed into speaking of her responsibility again.
Gifford noticed her nervousness. "She is afraid of me," he said to himself. "She wouldn't be, if she cared."