should he ask and be refused, the poor mother was in a state of confused feelings and contradictory wishes which did not agree with a nature like hers, given to mathematical certainties and averse to loose ends and frayed edges anywhere.  As nothing more was to be got out of Leam at this moment, and as Mrs. Corfield knew that Alick would be impatient, they went into the drawing-room together, Leam carrying her basket of spring flowers for her old friend.

It was pitiful to see the poor fellow.  Thin, gaunt, plainer than ever, if also ennobled by that almost saintly dignity which is given by illness, the first impression made on Leam was one of acute physical repulsion:  the second only gave room to compassion.  Fortunately, that little shudder of hers was unnoticed, and Alick saw only the beloved face, more beautiful to him than anything out of heaven, with its grave intensity of look that seemed so full of thought and feeling, turned to him—­saw only those glorious eyes fixed once more straight on his—­felt only the small hand which seemed to give him new life to touch lying clasped in his own, weak, wasted, whitened, like a dead hand for color against the warm olive of her skin.  It was almost worth while to have been separated so long to have this joy of meeting; and he thought his pain and danger not too dearly bought by this exquisite pleasure of knowing that she had pitied him and cared for him.

He raised himself from his pillows as he took her small, warm, fibrous hand, and his pallid face brightened into a tearful smile.  “Ah!” he said, drawing a deep breath, “I am so glad to see you again!”

“I am glad to see you too,” said Leam with a certain sudden embarrassment, she did not know why, but it came from something that she saw in his eyes and could not explain even to herself.

“Are you?” He pressed her hand, which he still held.  “It does me good to hear you say so,” he replied.

“I have brought you some flowers,” then said Leam, a little coldly, drawing away her hand, which she hated to have either held or pressed.

He took them with a pleased smile.  “Our pretty wild-flowers!” he said gratefully, burying his face in them, so cool and fresh and fragrant as they were.  “They are like the giver,” he added after a pause, “only not so sweet.”

“Do you remember when I persisted to you there were no wild-flowers in England?” asked Leam, wishing that Alick would not pay her compliments.

“Do I remember?  That was the first time I saw you,” cried Alick.  “Of what else have I thought ever since?”

“You like wild-flowers and celandine, do you not?” asked poor Leam, desperately disturbed.  “I found them in the wood as I came here.”

“And picked them for me?—­up in the corner there by Barton’s?  I know.  And you went up the lane for them—­for me?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Leam.

“For me?” he asked again.

“Why, yes:  for whom else could it have been?” answered Leam in the tone of grave rebuke he knew so well—­the tone which always expressed, “You are stupid.”