I pressed her to tell me about him, adding softly that I could feel for her more than any one else, as I had lost my own twin-brother.  But she looked kindly at me and shook her head.

’Not to-night, I do not feel well enough, and it always makes me so ill and excited to speak about it, and we should not have time.  Perhaps some day, when I get more used to you.  Oh yes, some day, perhaps.’

‘Indeed, I do not wish to intrude upon your trouble, Miss Hamilton,’ I returned, colouring at this repulse.  But she took my hand and pressed it gently.

’You must not be hurt with me.  I have never spoken to any one about Eric.  Mr. Cunliffe knows.  But he—­he—­is different, and he was very kind to me.  I must always be grateful.’  The tears came into her eyes, and she hurried on: 

’I should like you to know, only I am such a coward.  I am so sure of your sympathy, you seem already such a friend.  Why do you call me Miss Hamilton?  I am younger than you.  I should like to hear you say Gladys.  Miss Hamilton seems so stiff from you, and for years I have thought of you as Ursula.’

‘You mean that Uncle Max has often talked of me?’

‘Oh yes,’ with an involuntary sigh, ’of you and your brother.  He was always so fond of you both.  He used to say very often that he wished that I knew you; that you were so good, so unlike other people; that you bore your trouble so beautifully.’

’I bore my trouble well!  Oh, Miss Hamilton, it is impossible that he could have said that, when he knew how rebellious I was.’  But here I could say no more.

‘Don’t cry, Ursula,’ she said, very sweetly; ’you are not rebellious now.  Oh, I used to be so sorry for you; you little thought at that dreadful time, when you were so lonely and desolate, that a girl whom you had never seen, and perhaps of whom you had never heard, was praying for you with all her heart.  That is what I mean by saying that I have known you for a long time.’

By mutual impulse we bent forward and kissed each other,—­a quiet lingering kiss that spoke of full understanding and sympathy.  I had promised Uncle Max to be good to this girl, to do all I could to help her, but I did not know as I gave that promise how my heart would cleave to her, and that in time I should grow to love her with that rare friendship that is described in Holy Writ as ‘passing the love of women.’  We were silent for a little while, and then by some sudden impulse I began to speak of Max; I told her that I felt a little anxious about him, that he did not seem quite well or quite happy.

‘I have thought so myself,’ she returned, very quietly.

’Max is so good that I cannot bear to see him unhappy,—­he is so unselfish, so full of thought for other people, so earnest in his work, so conscientious and self-denying.’

‘True,’ she replied, taking up a little toy screen that lay in her lap and shielding her face from the flame:  ’he is all that.  If any one deserves to be happy, it is your uncle.’