Jeanne was thoroughly alarmed. That her old playmate, lover, husband
should come to such a plight at the very time she had struck him the
hardest blow of all filled her with remorse. In a hundred ways she tried
to make up to him for the loss of herself and for the loss of his eyes.
She became his constant companion; never had she been so kind and so
considerate. They saw no one from the outside, and each day through the
wood paths that circled their house made silent pilgrimages. And each
day on a bench, placed high, where the view was fairest, together, and
yet so far apart, watched the sun sink into the sound.

"These are the times I will remember," said Jimmie; "when--when I am
alone."

The last night they sat on the bench he took out his knife and carved
the date--July, 1913.

"What does that mean?" asked Jeanne.

"It means to-night I seem to love you more and need you more than ever
before," said Jimmie. "That is what it means. Will you remember?"

Jeanne was looking away from him, but she stretched out her hand and
laid it upon his.

"To-morrow I am going to town," said Jimmie, "to see that oculist from
Paris. They say what he tells you is the last word. And, if he says--"

Jeanne swung toward him and with all the jealousy of possession held
his hand. Her own eyes were blurred with tears.