"No. I don't seem to be sure of anything now-a-days—anything except that I'm afraid."
"Of the future?"
"Yes—and of myself."
For once at least in his life Clayton Craig was wise. He said nothing. A long silence fell between them. It was the girl herself who broke it.
"I sometimes think a part of me is dead," she said slowly, and the voice was very weary. "I think it was buried in Boston with Uncle Landor."
"Was I to blame, Bess?"
"Yes. You were the grave digger. You covered it up."
"Then I'm the one to bring it to life again."
The girl said nothing.
"You admit," pressed Craig, "that I'm the only person who can restore the thing you have lost, the thing whose lack is making you unhappy?"