"Then everything is all right between you and me?"
"Yes, but I'm ashamed—bitterly ashamed."
"You mustn't be, for I'm very glad. We'll try to forget the wreckage together. I couldn't have asked, unless I had known about—the other man, and you wouldn't have told me, I know. It wouldn't have been like you to tell me."
There was a knock, the door opened, and the nurse came in, watch in hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Bernard, but you can come to-morrow if he's well enough."
"I'll be well enough," said Allison, smiling.
"Of course," Rose assured him, shaking hands in friendly fashion. "Don't forget that it's a secret."
"I won't. Good-bye, Rose."
When she had gone, the nurse studied him furtively, from across the room. He had changed in some subtle way—he seemed stronger than before. Unless it was excitement, to be followed by a reaction, Miss Bernard had done him good. The night would prove it definitely, one way or the other.
Allison slept soundly until daybreak, for the first time—not stupor, but natural sleep. The nurse began to wonder if it was possible that a hand so badly crushed and broken could be healed. Hitherto her service had been mechanically kind; she had taken no interest because she saw no hope. How wonderful it would be if that long procession of learned counsellors should be mistaken after all!
Rose walked home, disdaining the waiting carriage. She had forgotten her hat and the sunset lent radiance to a face that needed no more. By rare tact and kindness, Allison had removed the sting from her shame and the burden she had borne so long was lifted from her heavy heart.