“Why, you are queer; you are different from all the others. Perhaps it is because you are not strong.”
“No, I know I am not,” Edgar said; “the doctor at my grandmother’s used to say I should not live.”
Arthur looked very earnestly at Edgar’s pale, passionless face.
“Did he really? Are you sorry?”
“Oh, I dare say he did not know! and if he did, I cannot help it; so what is the use of being sorry or glad? Perhaps you may not, just as likely.”
“But,” said Arthur, “if I had heard any one say that about me, I should think more about it than you seem to do.”
“Why, it would be all right for you, because you are converted, you know.”
“But, Edgar,” and Arthur looked very earnestly into his dark, sad eyes, “don’t you wish you were?”
Edgar’s eyes fell before his gaze. He looked away, and seemed to be dreamily watching the glistening sunbeams, darting through the trees; but presently the tears gathered, and he said, with a weary sigh,
“Oh, Arthur, if you only knew how much I wish it! if you only knew what I would give, to know I was converted!”