12 The Light That Failed Maisie looked with large eyes for a moment. And this was the boy who only ten days before had decorated Amomma’s horns with cut-paper ham-frills and turned him out, a bearded derision, among the public ways! Then she dropped her eyes: this was not the boy. “Don’t be stupid,” she said reprovingly, and with swift instinct attacked the side-issue. “How selfish you are! Just think what I should have felt if that horrid thing had killed you! ’'m quite miserable enough already.” “Why? Because you’re going away from Mrs. Jennett?” “No.” “From me, then?” No answer for a long time. Dick dared not look at her. He felt, though he did not know, all that the past four years had been to him, and this the more acutely since he had no knowledge to put his feelings in words. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it is.” “Maisie, you must know. /’m not supposing.” “Let’s go home,” said Maisie, weakly. But Dick was not minded to retreat. “I can’t say things,” he pleaded, “and I’m awfully sorry for teasing you about Amomma the other day. It’s all different now, Maisie, can’t you see? And you might have told me that you were going, instead of leaving me to find out.” “You didn’t. I did tell. Oh, Dick, what’s the use of worrying?” “There isn’t any; but we’ve been together years and years, and I didn’t know how much I cared.” “I don’t believe you ever did care.” “No, I didn’t; but I do, —I care awfully now, Maisie,” he gulped, — “Maisie, darling, say you care too, please.” “I do, indeed I do; but it won’t be any use.” “Wh Pa y: