'
'It would not agitate me in the least, Henry, to tell you all about
it. But it is a long story, and this seems a strange place in which
to tell it, surrounded by these glorious peaks and covered by this
roof of sunrise. But do you tell me all about yourself, all about
your illness, which seems to have been a dreadful one.'
My story, indeed! What was there in my story that I could or dare
tell her? My story would have to be all about herself, and the
tragedy of the supposed curse, and the terrible seizures from which
she had recovered, and of which she must never know. I set to work to
persuade her to tell me all she knew.
At last she yielded, and said, 'Well, I awoke as from a deep sleep,
and found myself lying on a couch, with a man's face bending over
mine. I could not help exclaiming, "Henry!'"
'Then did he resemble me?' I asked.
'Only in this--that in his eyes there was the expression which has
always appealed to me more than any other expression, whether in
human eyes or in the eyes of animals. I mean the pleading, yearning
expression of loneliness that there was in your eyes when they were
the eyes of a little, lame boy who could not get up the gangways
without me.
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