The young woman had knelt, and, taking the sufferer’s hand in both of hers, bowed her head over it as she pressed it to her lips.
“Look at me,” he said to her.
She raised her head, and they looked long and silently at each other. He seemed troubled and anxious.
“My poor friend,” he said, “you have not yet learned. Dr. Malbone—a letter—my pocket.”
“I have read the letter, my friend,” she hastened to say. “I know all about my father, and I know how thoughtful and kind you were not to tell me.”
“Then you forgive me?” he begged.
“Forgive you, my friend? Yes, a thousand times; but how can you forgive——”
She buried her face in his pillow; her arm stole round him, and she drew him against her breast.
“I did that long ago,” he replied.
“My noble, generous friend!” she said. “But can you understand what you have been to me, what you have done for me, what you are to me? Can you believe that you have made a true woman of me? Am I still the she-wolf, my friend?”