She did not speak again till they had reached the mellow mossy wall of the rectory orchard. Then she hazarded, in a small voice, that she dared say Dr. Tutterville would only laugh at her again, but she could not rest easy in her conscience without telling him that the more she had thought of the matter lately, and especially since her recent interview with Ellinor, the more the conviction had grown in her mind that the poor, pretty dear had been the victim of some base conspiracy. “That Margery!... not to speak of Lady Lochore——”
The rector halted, seized his wife by both hands, and exclaimed in a tone of genial admiration that brought back with a leap all her self-esteem:
“Sophia, there speaks your wise head! And,” he added, pressing the hands he held: “there speaks my Sophia’s kind heart.”
And arm-in-arm once more, and both smiling, they crossed the peaceful threshold of their home.
CHAPTER III
NOT WORDS, BUT HANDS MEETING
... Indeed I love thee: come
Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one:
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.
—Tennyson (The Princess).