“Why are you so—so different?” she asked, bravely.
“Different?” he echoed.
“Yes. You are kind—you speak the same to me as you used to. But since we started you've been different, somehow.”
“Fay, think how hard and dangerous the trip's been! I've been worried—and sick with dread—with—Oh, you can't imagine the strain I'm under! How could I be my old self?”
“It isn't worry I mean.”
He was too miserable to try to find out what she did mean; besides, he believed, if he let himself think about it, he would know what troubled her.
“I—I am almost happy,” she said, softly.
“Fay!... Aren't you at all afraid?”
“No. You'll take care of me.... Do—do you love me—like you did before?”
“Why, child! Of course—I love you,” he replied, brokenly, and he drew her closer. He had never embraced her, never kissed her. But there was a whiteness about her then—a wraith—a something from her soul, and he could only gaze at her.