"You mean that you did really and truly care for me, then, Bess? Cared
for me myself?"
"Yes."
"And that I frightened you back here?"
"Yes."
Unconsciously the man swallowed. His throat was very dry.
"And now that you're no longer afraid of me, how about it now?"
The girl looked away in silence.
"Tell me, Bess," pleaded the man, "tell me!"
"I can't tell you. I don't know."
"Don't know?"
"No. I don't seem to be sure of anything now-a-days--anything except
that I'm afraid."
"Of the future?"
"Yes--and of myself."
For once at least in his life Clayton Craig was wise. He said nothing. A
long silence fell between them. It was the girl herself who broke it.
"I sometimes think a part of me is dead," she said slowly, and the voice
was very weary. "I think it was buried in Boston with Uncle Landor."
"Was I to blame, Bess?"
"Yes. You were the grave digger. You covered it up."
"Then I'm the one to bring it to life again."
The girl said nothing.
"You admit," pressed Craig, "that I'm the only person who can restore
the thing you have lost, the thing whose lack is making you unhappy?"
"Yes. I admit it."
The man took a deep breath, as one arousing from reverie.
"Won't you let me give it you again, Bess?" he asked low.
"You won't do it," listlessly. "You could, but you won't. You're too
selfish."
"Bess!" The man's hand was upon her arm.
"Don't do that, please," said the girl quietly.
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