Rudyard Kipling 199 themselves into a smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that Maisie feared. Her Dick had gone blind and left in his place some one that she could hardly recognize till he spoke. “Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I told you how it would be. What’s the use of worrying? For pity’s sake don’t cry like that; it isn’t worth it.” “You don’t know how I hate myself. Oh, Dick, help me — help me!” The passion of tears had grown beyond her control and was beginning to alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his arm round her, and her head fell on his shoulder. “Hush, dear, hush! Don’t cry. You’re quite right, and you ve nothing to reproach yourself with — you never had. You’re only a little upset by the journey, and I don’t suppose you've had any breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you over.” “I wanted to come. I did indeed,” she protested. “Very well. And now you've come and seen, and I’m — immensely grateful. When you're better you shall go away and get something to eat. What sort of a passage did you have coming over?” Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first time in her life glad that she had something to lean against. Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly but clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be. She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart. “Are you better now?” he said. “Yes, but — don’t you hate me?” “I hate you? My God! I?” “Isn’t — isn’t there anything I could do for you, then? I’ll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes.”