He understood her, pitied her, and, seeing that she found consolation in
a distant hope, he let her enjoy it while she might. Gravely, yet
gratefully, he spoke, and pressed the hand extended to him with an
impulsive gesture.

"Generous as ever, Edith, and impetuously frank. Thank you for your
sincerity, your kindness, and the affection you once gave me. I say
'once,' for now duty, truth, and honor bar us from each other. My life
must be solitary, yet I shall find work to do, and learn to be content.
You owe all devotion to the good old man who loves you, and will not
fail him, I am sure. Leave the future and the past, but let us make the
present what it may be--a time to forgive and forget, to take heart and
begin anew. Christmas is a fitting time for such resolves, and the birth
of friendship such as ours may be."

Something in his tone and manner struck her, and, eyeing him with soft
wonder, she exclaimed, "How changed you are!"

"Need you tell me that?" And he glanced at his helpless limbs with a
bitter yet pathetic look of patience.

"No, no--not so! I mean in mind, not body. Once you were gay and
careless, eager and fiery, like Jasper; now you are grave and quiet, or
cheerful, and so very kind. Yet, in spite of illness and loss, you seem
twice the man you were, and something wins respect, as well as
admiration--and love."

Her dark eyes filled as the last word left her lips, and the beauty of a
touched heart shone in her face. Maurice looked up quickly, asking with
sudden earnestness, "Do you see it? Then it is true. Yes, I _am_