“Of course I won’t!” Edith said.  As she spoke she forgot herself in pity for the scared, haggard face. ("Oh, was it my fault?” she thought, with a real pang.) And before she knew it her coldness was all gone and she was at Eleanor’s side; she sat down on the edge of the bed and caught her hand impulsively.  “Eleanor,” she said, “I’ve been awfully unhappy, for fear anything I said—­that morning—­troubled you?  Of course there was no sense in talking that way, for either of us.  So please forgive me! Was it what I said, that made you—­that bothered you, I mean?  I’m so unhappy,” Edith said, and caught her lip between her teeth to keep it steady; her eyes were bright with tears.  “Eleanor, truly I am nothing to—­to anybody.  Nobody cares a copper for me!  Do be kind to me.  Oh—­I’ve been awfully unhappy; and I’m so glad you’re better.”

Instantly the smoldering fire broke into flame:  “I’m not better,” Eleanor said, “and you wouldn’t be glad if I were.”

It was as if she struck her hand upon those generous young lips.  Edith sprang to her feet.  “Eleanor!”

Eleanor sat up in bed, her hands behind her, propping her up; her cheeks were dully red, her eyes glowing.  “All this talk about making me unhappy means nothing at all.  You have always made me unhappy.  And as for anybody’s caring for you—­they don’t; you are quite right about that.  Quite right!  And I want to tell you something else:  If anything happens to me, I want Maurice to marry again.  But he won’t marry you.”

“Eleanor,” Edith said, “you wouldn’t say such a thing, or think such a thing, if you weren’t sick.  I’m sorry I came in.  I’ll go right away, and—­”

“No,” she said; “don’t go away,”—­her arms had begun to tremble with strain of supporting her, she spoke in whispered gasps:  “I am going to speak,” she said; “I prefer to speak.  I want you to know that if I die—­”

“You are not going to die!  You are going to get well.”

“Will you please not keep interrupting?  It is so hard for me to get my breath.  I want you to know that he will marry—­that Dale woman.  Because it is right that he should.  Because of the little boy.  His little boy.”

Edith was dumb.

“So you see, he can’t marry you,” Eleanor said, and fell back on her pillows, her eyes half closed.

There was a long silence, just the ticking of the Empire clock and the faint snapping of the fire.  Edith felt as if some iron hand had gripped her throat.  For a moment it was impossible for her to speak; then the words came quietly:  “Eleanor, I’m glad you told me this.  You are going to get well, and I’m glad, glad that you are!  But I must tell you:  If anything had happened to you, I would have moved heaven and earth to have kept Maurice from marrying that woman.  Oh, Eleanor, how can you say you love him, and yet plan such terrible unhappiness for him?”