"And picked them for me?—up in the corner there by Barton's? I know. And you went up the lane for them—for me?" he repeated.
"Yes," said Leam.
"For me?" he asked again.
"Why, yes: for whom else could it have been?" answered Leam in the tone of grave rebuke he knew so well—the tone which always expressed, "You are stupid."
Alick's lip quivered. "You are so good," he said.
"Am I?" asked Leam seriously.
Then something passed over her face, a kind of gray shadow of remembrance, and she dropped her eyes. Was she good? and could he think so?
A silence fell between them, and each knew of what the other was thinking; then Leam said suddenly, to break that terrible silence, which she felt was more betraying than even speech would have been, "I am sorry you have been so ill. How dreadfully ill you have been!"
"Yes," he said, "I have been bad enough, I believe, but by God's grace I have been spared."
"It would have been more grace not to have let you get ill in the beginning," said Leam gravely.