I
waited a little, and then I went in too; and--oh, Miss Sumner, he had
his head down on his desk, and when I touched his head, he reached up
and took my hand and held it--and laid his cheek against it a little
while--and oh, his cheek was wet. It's cruel of God--to make him--
unhappy, He's good--too good. And--oh, I love him so, Miss Shirley, I
love him so--and he'll never, never know. I'm just one of his--
responsibilities, you know; and I shouldn't presume. But nobody--has
ever been kind to me but Mr. Bryce--and you. And I can't help loving
people who are kind--and gentle to nobodies."
The hysterical outburst over, Shirley led the girl to her cozy
sitting-room upstairs and prevailed upon the girl to put on one of
her own beautiful negligees. Moira's story--her confession of love,
so tragic because so hopeless--had stirred Shirley deeply. She seated
herself in front of Moira and cupped her chin in her palm.
"Of course, dear," she said, "you couldn't possibly see anybody you
loved suffer so and not feel dreadfully about it. And when a man like
Bryce Cardigan is struck down, he's apt to present rather a tragic
and helpless figure. He wanted sympathy, Moira--woman's sympathy, and
it was dear of you to give it to him."
"I'd gladly die for him," Moira answered simply.
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