"To serve you," she answered. Her eyes met his clearly now. "To help you—as your best friend might."
"Rose, dear Rose! You give me new courage, but how can I let you sacrifice yourself for me?" "Believe me," she said diffidently, "there is no question of sacrifice. Have you never thought of what you might do, that would be even better than the career you had planned?"
"Why, no. What could I do, without—"
"Write," she said, with her eyes shining. "Let others play what you write. Immortality comes by way of the printed page."
"I couldn't," he returned, doubtfully.
"I never composed anything except two or three little things that I never dared to play, even for encores."
"Never say you can't. Say 'I must,' and 'I will.'"
"You're saying them for me. You almost make me believe in myself."
"That's the very best of beginnings, isn't it?"
She was quite calm now, outwardly, and she drew her hand away. Allison remembered the long, happy hours they had spent together before Isabel came into his life. Now that she was gone, the old comradeship had returned, the sweeter because of long absence. Rose had never fretted nor annoyed him; she seemed always to understand.