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 ble. I fix my attention upon other things when I can; and that reminds me—I'm in great fear that I owe you an apology."

"Do you? What for?"

"I think you know."

"No; I don't."

"Yes," he said. "I think you do. You see, it happens that I've become merely some broken machinery about ready to be tossed out on the junk pile"

"Mr. Orbison!" she cried, protesting; and she leaned toward him, her eyes shining. "You haven't any right to speak of yourself like that."

"Haven't I? It's what I am, my dear young lady."

"No! I know how you got your hurt. Heroes aren't broken machinery, Mr. Orbison!"

"Oh, dear me!" he laughed. "You're very old-fashioned. But what I was trying to say is that even when one can't take part in life any longer, one can't help watching it. Life for an invalid becomes a looking on at the lives of others—at least it does for the kind of invalid I've found myself to be. Well, I've been looking on at you, Miss Ambler, and I think I should ask your pardon for it."

"Do you?" She looked at him gravely. "Why?"

"You're very kind," he said. "Nevertheless, I