“You do not hate them as I do,” said he.

“I’m afraid I’m not a good hater,” she answered.  “I admit I’ve got a sore spot where he—­struck me.  But as far as he’s concerned, I honestly believe I’m already feeling a little bit obliged to him.”

“Naturally,” said he in a tone that solicited confidences.  “Haven’t you got what you really wanted?”

But his sister made no reply.

“Look here, Del,” he said after waiting in vain, “if you don’t want to marry, there’s no reason why you should.  You’ll soon see I’m not as good-for-nothing as some people imagine.”

“What makes you think I don’t want to marry?” asked Adelaide, her face completely hid by the darkness, her voice betraying nothing.

“Why, what you’ve been saying—­or, rather, what you’ve not been saying.”

A very long silence, then out of the darkness came Adelaide’s voice, even, but puzzling.  “Well, Artie, I’ve made up my mind to marry.  I’ve got to do something, and Dory’ll give me something to do.  If I sat about waiting, waiting, and thinking, thinking, I should do—­something desperate.  I’ve got to get away from myself.  I’ve got to forget myself.  I’ve got to get a new self.”

“Just as I have,” said Arthur.

Presently he sat on the arm of her chair and reached out for her hand which was seeking his.

When Hiram was first stricken, Adelaide’s Simeon had installed himself as attendant-in-chief.  The others took turns at nursing; Simeon was on duty every hour of every twenty-four.  He lost all interest in Adelaide, in everything except the sick man.  Most of the time he sat quietly, gazing at the huge, helpless object of his admiration as if fascinated.  Whenever Hiram deigned to look at him, he chattered softly, timidly approached, retreated, went through all his tricks, watching the while for some sign of approval.  The first week or so, Hiram simply tolerated the pathetic remembrancer to human humility because he did not wish to chagrin his daughter.  But it is not in nature to resist a suit so meek, so persistent, and so unasking as Simeon’s.  Soon Hiram liked to have his adorer on his knee, on the arm of his chair, on the table beside him; occasionally he moved his unsteady hand slowly to Simeon’s head to give it a pat.  And in the long night hours of wakefulness there came to be a soothing companionship in the sound of Simeon’s gentle breathing in the little bed at the head of his bed; for Simeon would sleep nowhere else.

The shy races of mankind, those that hide their affections and rarely give them expression, are fondest of domestic animals, because to them they can show themselves without fear of being laughed at or repulsed.  But it happened that Hiram had never formed a friendship with a dog.  In his sickness and loneliness, he was soon accepting and returning Simeon’s fondness in kind.  And at the time when a man must re-value everything in life and put a proper estimate upon