At sight of him she paused, held in her tracks, eyes grown big
with solicitude.

"You are ill."

Before he could answer she had dropped the anemones she carried,
was on her knees beside him, and had his head cushioned against
her arm.

"Tell me! What can I do for you? What is the matter?"

Jeff groaned. His head was aching as if it would blow up, but that
was not the cause of the wave of pain which had swept over him. A
realization had come to him of what was the matter with him. His
eyes fell from hers. He made as if to get up, but her hand
restrained him with a gentle firmness.

"Don't! You mustn't." Then aloud, she cried: "Girls--girls--
there's a sick man here. Run and get help. Quick."

"No--no! I--I'm not sick."

A flood of shame and embarrassment drenched him. He could not
escape her tender hands without actual force and his poignant
shyness made that impossible. She was like a fairy tale, a
creature of dreams. He dared not meet her frank pitiful eyes,
though he was intensely aware of them. The odor of violets brings
to him even to this day a vision of girlish charm and daintiness,
together with a memory of the abased reverence that filled him.