The day wore on.  She sat absorbed in her own thoughts, and heedless of the second letter which she had not opened yet, until Kirke’s return.

He stopped on the landing outside, and, opening the door a little way only, asked, without entering the room, if she wanted anything that he could send her.  She begged him to come in.  His face was worn and weary; he looked older than she had seen him look yet.  “Did you put my letter on the table for me?” she asked.

“Yes.  I put it there at the doctor’s request.”

“I suppose the doctor told you it was from my sister?  She is coming to see me, and Miss Garth is coming to see me.  They will thank you for all your goodness to me better than I can.”

“I have no claim on their thanks,” he answered, sternly.  “What I have done was not done for them, but for you.”  He waited a little, and looked at her.  His face would have betrayed him in that look, his voice would have betrayed him in the next words he spoke, if she had not guessed the truth already.  “When your friends come here,” he resumed, “they will take you away, I suppose, to some better place than this.”

“They can take me to no place,” she said, gently, “which I shall think of as I think of the place where you found me.  They can take me to no dearer friend than the friend who saved my life.”

There was a moment’s silence between them.

“We have been very happy here,” he went on, in lower and lower tones.  “You won’t forget me when we have said good-by?”

She turned pale as the words passed his lips, and, leaving her chair, knelt down at the table, so as to look up into his face, and to force him to look into hers.

“Why do you talk of it?” she asked.  “We are not going to say good-by, at least not yet.”

“I thought—­” he began.

“Yes?”

“I thought your friends were coming here—­”

She eagerly interrupted him.  “Do you think I would go away with anybody,” she said, “even with the dearest relation I have in the world, and leave you here, not knowing and not caring whether I ever saw you again?  Oh, you don’t think that of me!” she exclaimed, with the passionate tears springing into her eyes-"I’m sure you don’t think that of me!”

“No,” he said; “I never have thought, I never can think, unjustly or unworthily of you.”

Before he could add another word she left the table as suddenly as she had approached it, and returned to her chair.  He had unconsciously replied in terms that reminded her of the hard necessity which still remained unfulfilled—­the necessity of telling him the story of the past.  Not an idea of concealing that story from his knowledge crossed her mind.  “Will he love me, when he knows the truth, as he loves me now?” That was her only thought as she tried to approach the subject in his presence without shrinking from it.

“Let us put my own feelings out of the question,” she said.  “There is a reason for my not going away, unless I first have the assurance of seeing you again.  You have a claim—­the strongest claim of any one—­to know how I came here, unknown to my friends, and how it was that you found me fallen so low.”