Between Friends

It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right

senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his

bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.

The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and

bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to

her throat.

"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.

Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand

and laid her cheek on it, crying silently.

As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to

wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at

her.

The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was

moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she

bent over him.

"I want--Graylock," he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer,

gazing at him intently.

"Graylock," he repeated.

"Not now," she murmured, "not today. Rest for a, while."

"Please," he said, looking up at her trustfully--"Graylock. Now."

"When you are well--"

"I am--well. Please, dear."

For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his

limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took

his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful

expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.

So at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock.

It was late. She went downstairs to the janitor's quarters where

there was a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christmas

day kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday was

permitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of

gaiety in town was doubtless at its flood.

So she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; then

she rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry

darkness through the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking

eleven.

As she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitated.

But the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decided

her.

After a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment. A servant

asked her to hold the wire.

After an interval she recognized Graylock's voice at the telephone,

pleasant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of the

season.

"What are you doing this Christmas night?" she asked. "Surely you

are not all alone there at home?"