But could he stay in her presence, receive her confidences, hear her daily talk of Earle and her blighted hopes, and make no sign of his own sorrow and bitter disappointment?
“Be her friend, strong and true, and only that!”
The words were like the knell of doom to him; but she needed him. If she could relieve her heart of something of its burden, health might return and her life be saved. Was not his duty clear?
“And never anything more?” was his last appeal, as he held her hot, trembling hands and looked into her glittering eyes.
“And never anything more,” she repeated, after him. “It cannot be—will you not believe it?” and he knew that so it must be.
Back, back into his aching, almost bursting heart he crushed his great love, with every rebellious thought, and all the hopes that had begun to bud anew.
He would do anything so that she need not die; he would “trample upon every tendril of affection reaching out after her,” as she had said regarding her love for Earle, and become only the true and faithful friend, if by so doing he could comfort and perchance save her.
Something of the struggle that this resolve cost him could be traced in the pale but resolute face, and in his quivering lips.
“Editha,” he said, solemnly, as if recording a vow, and still clasping those small hands, “it shall be as you wish; I will never utter another word of love to you; I will be your steadfast friend.”
“Oh, thank you!” and, like a weary, grieved child who has restrained its sobs until it could reach the safe and tender shelter of its mother’s arms, she dropped her head upon his shoulder and burst into nervous weeping.