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"Sing it, Jane," he said.
"I can't, Deryck," she answered, still softly sounding the chords.
"I have not sung for months."
"What has been the matter--for months?"
Jane took her hands off the keys, and swung round impulsively.
"Oh, boy," she said. "I have made a bad mess of my life! And yet I
know I did right. I would do the same again; at least--at least, I
hope I would."
The doctor sat in silence for a minute, looking at her and
pondering these short, quick sentences. Also he waited for more,
knowing it would come more easily if he waited silently.
It came.
"Boy--I gave up something, which was more than life itself to me,
for the sake of another, and I can't get over it. I know I did
right, and yet--I can't get over it."
The doctor leaned forward and took the clenched hands between his.
"Can you tell me about it, Jeanette?"
"I can tell no one, Deryck; not even you."
"If ever you find you must tell some one, Jane, will you promise to
come to me?"
"Gladly.


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