"Like those young lives that go out too early," murmured Constance. "See that little wind-flower, Jim, uprooted, drowning—and that dead thing tumbling about half under water—"
Wayward laid a firm hand across hers.
"I don't mean to be morbid," she said with a pathetic upward glance, "but, Jim, it is too awful to hear him fighting for just—just a chance to breathe a little—"
"I think he's going to get well," said Wayward.
"Jim! Why do you think it? Has any—"
"No.... I just think it."
"Is there any reason—"
"None—except you."
His voice within the last month or two had almost entirely lost its indistinct and husky undertone; the clear resonant quality, which had always thrilled her a little as a young girl, seemed to be returning; and now she felt, faintly, the old response awaking within her.
"It is very sweet of you to believe he'll live because I love him," she said gently.