foot.

"I am sick," he rambled on--"and very tired. . . . We were boys
together, Cecile. . . . When I am in my right mind I would not harm
him. . . . He was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared
not do. . . . So young, and straight, and daring. . . . I would not
harm him. Or you, Cecile. . . . Only I am sick, burning out, with
only a crippled mind left--from being badly hurt--It never got well.
. . . And now it is dying of its hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before
it dies I do forgive him--and ask forgiveness--for Christ's sake--"

Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.



VII

It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his
bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.

The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to
her throat.

"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.

Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand