"There is a kind of folly and stupidity in saying it," he said, "but you have done—you do—a great deal for me."
She turned her tired face upon him with a wistful, measuring look. It searched his face for an instant and came back baffled. Arnold spoke with so much kindness, so much appreciation.
"Very little," she said mechanically, looking at the fresh footprints of Sister Ann Frances and Sister Margaret.
"But I know. And can't you tell me—it would make me so very happy—that I have done something for you too—something that you value?"
Hilda's eyes lightened curiously, reverie came into them, and a smile. She answered as if she spoke to herself, "I should not know how to tell you."
Then, scenting wonder in him, she added, "You were thinking of something—in particular."
"You have sometimes made me believe," Stephen returned, "that I may account myself, under God, the accident which induced you to take up your blessed work. I was thinking of that."
"Oh," she said, "of that!" and seemed to take refuge in silence.
"Yes," Arnold said, with infinite gentleness.
"Oh, you were profoundly the cause! I might say you are, for without you I doubt whether I should have the—courage——"