She was dressed and sitting up in a big chair. She did not look so ill as he had expected, was his first relieved thought, and yet in some strange way she seemed to have changed. Was it that she looked older? He could not determine, but her eyes met his steadily, almost as if she did not recognize him, and her voice was quite even as she answered his broken question.
"I am—much better, thank you," and then: "The doctor says I may go home."
"Yes—I will take you this afternoon."
She twisted her fingers together restlessly, her eyes downcast, then quite suddenly she raised them to his face.
"I wish you had let me drown," she said, with passionate intensity.
"Marie—Marie," said Chris, in anguish.
She seemed heedless of his pain and went on talking as if to herself. "I'm no use to anybody. I bring nothing but trouble with me! That fortune-teller was right, you see, when she told me that she could see water in my life again—that would bring trouble . . . and tears!" Her voice fell almost to a whisper.
Chris stood looking at her helplessly. She seemed in some strange 292 way to be a great distance from him and yet by putting out his hand he could have touched her.
"Feathers gave his life for me" she went on, in that curious sing- song tone. "He could have saved himself, but he would not leave me— and we were . . . oh, hours in that dreadful darkness!"
"Don't think of it, Marie! Oh, my dear, try and forget it all."