"I am grieved to see you like this—-" he began.
"Yes, I am sure you are!" she quickly interrupted him—"But please do not talk about it just now! I want to forget my poor crippled body altogether for a little while. I've had so much bother with it lately! I want to talk to you about my soul. That's not crippled. And you can tell me just what it is and what I am to do with it."
He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder.
"Your soul!"—he murmured,
"Yes." And a shadow of sad and wistful thought darkened her features—"You see I may not live very long,—and I ought to be properly prepared in case I die. I know you will explain everything that is difficult to me,—because you seem to be sure of your faith. You remember your sermon on the soul, when I came to church just that once?"
He bent his head. He could find no words with which to interrupt her.
"Well, I have often thought of it since,—and I have longed—oh, so much!—to make a confession to you! But may I ask you one or two questions first?"
His dry lips moved—and he whispered, rather than spoke—
"You may! But are you not distressing yourself about matters which— which perhaps—could wait—-?"
Her blue eyes regarded him with a wonderful courage.