"I can stay only a minute," he said. "I haven't had much sleep since I saw you yesterday."
"I'll make you some tea," she offered, but he stopped her with a quick, "No, no,—I've just had coffee, and I must get home."
They sat down, somewhat stiffly, on opposite sides of the hearth.
"What made you cry?" he asked, with his keen eyes on her downcast face.
"Everything—the rain yesterday—the fog to-day. I wish the sun would shine—I wish—I were—dead——"
With a sharp exclamation, he stood up. "You're too young to say such things—there's all of life before you."
"Yes," she said dully, "there's all of life——"
To him she was a most appealing figure. Her weakness seemed to stand out against the background of his strength. Suddenly he held out his hands to her. "Come here, Betty child," he said, using, unconsciously, the little captain's name for her, "come here."
Some new note in his voice made her cheeks flame, but she obeyed him. He took both of her hands in his. "I've been thinking of you, and your future. Somehow I can't see you, a little slip of a thing like you, being beaten and bruised by the hard things of life. The world is cruel and you are so—sweet. You need some one to take care of you——"
"Yes," she whispered; "but there isn't any one."