She regarded him seriously. "I have thought of that. You know, I have
faith in a great many unbelievable things. I can think of nothing more
beautiful than the spirit that lives in the heart of a bird. I am sure,
if I were dying, I would like to have a bird singing near me.
Hopelessness cannot be so deep that bird-song will not reach it."
He nodded, trying to answer in that way. He felt uncomfortable. She
closed the door which he had left partly open, and made a little gesture
for him to resume the chair which he had left a few moments before. She
seated herself first and smiled at him wistfully, half regretfully,
as she said:
"I have been very foolish. What I am going to tell you now I should have
told you aboard the _Nome_. But I was afraid. Now I am not afraid, but
ashamed, terribly ashamed, to let you know the truth. And yet I am not
sorry it happened so, because otherwise I would not have come up here,
and all this--your world, your people, and you--have meant a great deal
to me. You will understand when I have made my confession."
"No, I don't want that," he protested almost roughly. "I don't want you
to put it that way. If I can help you, and if you wish to tell me as a
friend, that's different. I don't want a confession, which would imply
that I have no faith in you.
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