a dressing-gown--in a heat that almost choked her.

But with swelling heart she hurried to his side, and, after greetings,
drew a chair close up to his, took the hand he silently extended, and
held it in a long, warm, maternal clasp. Manton retired and shut the
door. The invalid lay back on his cushions, and closed his eyes. The
visitor, watching him, detected an oozing tear--the first she had ever
seen there.

"How did it happen?" she crooned, and followed the question
with many more of the same sort; to which he replied as to a mother or
a nurse.

"It's this beastly climate," he complained. "It upsets me every time--
though this is the worst bout I've had yet. I really can't stand it,
Debbie. Even in June, when you'd think you were safe--just look at it!"

It was raining slightly as he spoke.

"Well, why do you try to stand it?" said she. "Why not come back to
your own country? You'd be safe there, if anywhere." "I've been
thinking of it," said he. "It has been in my mind all winter--the
thought of that good, soaking sunshine that we used to have and think
nothing of. The Riviera isn't a patch on it. Aye, I'd get warm there.
But what a life--now. I am not like you--I've got nothing and nobody
to go back to--I should be giving up everything--the little that I
have left. And God knows life is empty enough as it is--"

"Well, I'm going," she broke in. "And am I nobody?"