He rested a little. They brought him food; and Aldous sat beside him making pretence to read, so that he might be encouraged to rest. His sister came and went; so did the doctor. But when they were once more alone, Hallin put out his hand and touched his companion.
"What is it, dear Ned?"
"Only one thing more, before we leave it. Is that all that stands between you now—the whole? You spoke to me once in the summer of feeling angry, more angry than you could have believed. Of course, I felt the same. But just now you spoke of its all being your fault. Is there anything changed in your mind?"
Aldous hesitated. It was extraordinarily painful to him to speak of the past, and it troubled him that at such a moment it should trouble Hallin.
"There is nothing changed, Ned, except that perhaps time makes some difference always. I don't want now"—he tried to smile—"as I did then, to make anybody else suffer for my suffering. But perhaps I marvel even more than I did at first, that—that—she could have allowed some things to happen as she did!"
The tone was firm and vibrating; and, in speaking, the whole face had developed a strong animation most passionate and human.
Hallin sighed.
"I often think," he said, "that she was extraordinarily immature—much more immature than most girls of that age—as to feeling. It was really the brain that was alive."
Aldous silently assented; so much so that Hallin repented himself.
"But not now," he said, in his eager dying whisper; "not now. The plant is growing full and tall, into the richest life."