She had stopped and laid her hand upon the bridge-rail. Involuntarily he laid his hand upon it, holding it within his strength and warmth.
"When she talks to me of him," Lassie went on, seeming unconscious of the hand and looking far ahead, "I forget myself, I forget Mamma, I forget my début; I live only in her and her hope. I never saw love like hers; she lives in him—in it—not in the world, and she's so sure of the next world and of their future. It goes all through me, the wonder of it. I can't tell you how I envy her. She said when I came that she would send me back home all different, and I see now that she will do it."
"But I don't want you different." The words burst from the man's lips. Mountain tops are serene and glorious and very close to the clouds, but oh, the good warmth, the dear, cosy loveliness of those soft green slopes far—so far—below.
Lassie was too deeply engrossed to notice. "I shall go back to my home a better girl," she said; "and I shan't let myself forget what I've learned here."
Ingram thought that she had heard, and felt himself silenced.
There was a minute of stillness, and then they walked on. The October evening was falling chill, and the night wind came winding up the gorge.
"Do you agree with her about the dam, too?" the man asked finally, as they approached the end of the bridge, striving against an echo of bitterness.
"Oh, yes, she has converted me about that, too. She took me down to call on Mr. Ledge, and when I saw that dear, courtly, old gentleman, and heard how quietly and earnestly and sadly he and Alva talked about it, I came to see how different all that was, too."
Ingram waited a second or two; then he said:
"And Mrs. Lathbun,—do you believe in her too, now?"