"To remind me always that I mustn't hope too much. It's just a chance, you know."
"If you don't need them again, may I have them?"
"Why?" she asked, startled.
"Because they are yours—they've seemed a part of you ever since I've known you. I couldn't bear to have thrown away anything that was part of you, even if you've outgrown it."
"Certainly," answered Barbara, in a high, uncertain voice. "You're very welcome and I hope you can have them."
"Barbara!" Roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his. "What did I say that was wrong?"
"Nothing," she answered, with difficulty. "But, after bearing all this, it seems hard to think that you don't want me to be—to be separated from my crutches. Because they have belonged to me always—you think they always must."
"Barbara! When you've always understood me, must I begin explaining to you now? I've never had anything that belonged to you, and I thought you wouldn't mind, if it was something you didn't need any more—I wouldn't care what it was—if——"
"I see," she interrupted. A blinding flash of insight had, indeed, made many things wonderfully clear. "Here—wouldn't you rather have this?"