"You?" he said in an amazed breath. "_You?_ Why, Nan!"

He reached up one hand and took hers and drew her with his slight strength around where he could see her. It did not take much strength.

She came, laughing still, and sweeping a graceful low bend before him.

"Don't ask me why," she said with a shake of her head. "I didn't want to go. I knew I wouldn't go all the time I was dressing. But I dressed. I knew I could argue with them better when I got this gown on. I think I have rather a regal air in it, don't you?"

"I could tell better if you were not wearing that shapeless thing over it."

"Oh, but I've taken off my gloves, and I can't stand bare arms and shoulders here at home." She shrugged the shoulders under the thin silken garment with which she had covered them.

"And you're not going to the Van Antwerps' at all?"

"Certainly not. I preferred to stay at home."

"Why?"

"I told you not to ask me why. But I suppose you won't talk about anything else until you know."

She sat down opposite him before the fire, looking up at the great branches of holly on the chimney-piece above, their scarlet berries gleaming saucily among the rich green of their leaves. She reached up and pulled off a spray; then she glanced at him. He was silently surveying her. In her delicate blue gauzy gown she was something to look at in the fire-glow.

"I wanted to spend my last evening here with you," she said.

He smiled back at her. "Three people looked in here this evening and told me you thought you ought."

She answered indignantly: "I didn't say I ought. I didn't think it. I wanted to. And I didn't want them to stay. That is why I let them all array themselves before I refused to go."

He was still smiling. "Delicate flattery," he said, "adapted to an invalid. You should never let an invalid think you pity him--at least not a man-invalid who got knocked out while playing a vigorous game for all it was worth."

"Jerry," she said, looking full at him out of a pair of eyes which were capable of saying eloquent things quite by themselves, "do you think all the hours I've spent with you in this month I've been visiting Hester were spent from pity?"

"I hope not," he answered lightly. "I'm sure not. We've had some pleasant times, haven't we?"

She turned from him without speaking, and, clasping her hands loosely in front of her, bent forward and studied the fire. Presently she got up and took a fresh log from the basket.

"Be careful," he warned, as she stooped to lay it in place. "Put it on gently. The sparks might fly, and that cobweb dress of yours----"

She laid the log across the other half-burnt sticks, and started back with a little cry as a dozen brilliant points of flame flew toward her.

"Don't do that again," he protested sternly, with nothing of the invalid in his voice. "I don't like to see you do such things when I couldn't stir to save you no matter what happened."

She stood looking down at him. "Jerry," she said, "I'll tell you why I stayed to-night. I wanted to talk with you about something. I want your help."

His eyes told her that he would give it if he could.

"Do you mind if I sit on a pillow here before the fire?" she asked, bringing one from the couch. Jerry had plenty of pillows. Since his breakdown every girl who had ever known him had sent him a fresh one.

"Somehow I can talk better," she explained.

She settled herself on her cushion, her blue skirts lying in light folds about her, her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee.

"I always go straight to the point," she said. "I never know how to lead artfully up to a thing. Jerry, you know I go to Paris in January, to do some special work in ill.u.s.trating?"

"Yes."

"I go with Aunt Elizabeth, and we shall live very quietly and properly, and I shall not have any of the--trials--so many young women workers have. My work will keep me very busy, and, I think, happy. I mean it shall. But, Jerry--I want something. You know you have always known me, because I was Hester's friend."

"Is this 'straight to the point'?" he asked, and there was a gleam of fun in his eyes, though his lips were sober. But his interest was unmistakable.

"Very straight. But we have never been special friends, you and I."

"Haven't we? I congratulated myself we had."

"Not what I mean by that word." She sat looking into the fire for some little time, while he remained motionless, watching her, his eyes shaded by his hand. At length she said very earnestly, still staring fireward, while her cheeks took on a slight access of colour:

"I want to feel I have a friend--one friend--a real one, whom I leave behind me here--who will understand me and write to me, and whom I can count on--differently from the way I count on other friends."

He was studying her absorbedly. There came into his eyes a peculiar look as she made her frank statement.

"Then you haven't just that sort of a friend among all the men you know at home?"

"Not a single one. And I miss it. Not because I have ever had it," she added quickly.

He was silent for a little while, then he said very quietly: "You are offering me a good deal, Nan. Do you realize just how much?

Friendship--such friendship--means more to me now than it ever did before."

"Does it?" she asked with equal quietness. "I'm glad of that."

"Because," he went on gravely, "I realize that it is the only thing I can ever have, and it must take the place of all I once--hoped for."

"Oh, why do you say that?" she cried impetuously.

"Since you are to be my friend now--my special friend--I can tell you what Doctor McDonough told me just two days ago. May I tell you that? I have told and shall tell no one else. Before you take the vows"--he smiled grimly--"you should know what you are accepting."

"Tell me."

"He said I might be better--much better--but I could never hope to be--my old self again."

"Oh, Jerry! Oh, Jerry!" Her voice was almost a sob. She turned about and reached up both hands to him, clasping his with a warm and tender pressure.

"Is that what your friendship means?" he asked, holding her hands closely and looking down steadily into her eyes while his own grew brilliant. "If it does--it is going to be something a man might give up a good deal for."

"Oh, how can you take such a cruel disappointment so?" she breathed.

"And to hear it just at Christmas, too. I've said all along that you were just the bravest person I ever knew. But now!--Jerry, I'm not worthy to be your friend."

"Ah, I'll not let you take back what you offered me. If you knew how I've wanted to ask it----"

"Have you, really?" she asked so eagerly that he turned his head away for a moment and set his lips firmly together as if he feared he might presently be tempted to go beyond those strait boundaries of friendship.

Somehow from the lips of such a girl as Nan this sort of thing was the most appealing flattery; at the same time it was unquestionably sincere.