trimmed with fur; a gold bracelet was round her gloved wrist, and a veil half-hid her features.
Presently he perceived that she was very white, that her mouth was twitching, and that her eyes were full of tears.
"Alec—I'm so sorry you're so ill . . . Are you in pain?"
He shook his head absently. Her veil and the fur on her cloak looked odd, he thought, in the half-light of the room.
"You will be better soon: the worst is over."
"No," he answered, with a dreary smile. "I am going to die."
She burst into sobs.
"No, no, Alec . . . You must not think that."
He stretched his arm over the coverlet towards her, and felt the soft pressure of her gloved hand.
"Forgive me, Ethel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pain you. But it is so; the doctor told me this morning."
She sat down by the bedside, still crying, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Ethel, how strange it seems. Do you know I haven't seen you since I left Cockermouth?" The words came deliberately, for his mind had grown quite calm. "How the time has flown!"
Her grasp on his hand tightened, but she made no answer.
"It was very kind of you to come all this way, Ethel, to see me. Will you stay a little and let me talk to you? It's more than five years since we've talked together, you know," and he smiled faintly. "Don't cry so, Ethel, dear. I did not mean to make you cry. There's no cause to cry, dear; you've made me so happy."
"My poor, poor Alec," she sobbed.
"You'd almost forgotten the old days, perhaps," he continueddreamily,
