She appeared to heed neither his act nor his words, but casually inquired, while she observed that he looked better and brighter than when she last saw him:
"Where is your painting outfit, John?"
"Sold at auction, I imagine," he replied; then continued, with painful embarrassment: "I may as well tell you exactly how matters stand with me. Marie left me—that is, we had a final falling out—more than three years ago. She immediately broke camp, sold off everything—even my kit—and cleared out; went West and got her bill from me, and I've drifted about ever since. We didn't have a very happy time together, and I——"
"You need not tell me any more," Helen here abruptly interposed. "Forget it, if you can."
"Oh, Helen," he burst forth, with exceeding bitterness, "I wish I could forget it! I wish I could wake up to find these last ten years only a miserable nightmare!"
"I think you are waking up from a very bad dream, John," she returned, in a friendly tone. "You are looking decidedly better, and it rests a good deal with yourself whether you continue to improve."
"Marie is dead—was killed, or, rather, fatally injured, and died in the Mercy Hospital a few months ago," resumed John, not to be diverted from what he had been saying. "I did not learn of it until it was all over, or I would have gone to——"
"Yes, I know; I read of the accident," Helen again broke in upon him, and somewhat startled to learn that he had been in New York at that time.
But she felt that she could not discuss that chapter of his life with him. Her chief desire now was to start him upon the right road to redeem his past, if that were possible; then leave him to work his own way to a more prosperous future.
"Now, let there be no more looking back," she hastened to add; "do not waste time in vain regrets over what is behind you, but keep your face steadfastly toward the light of the new day that is dawning upon you. You are really better—you are going to get well; you will take up your art again, and you will do something worth while."