“She has changed.”
“Well, then, she has! I thought so.”
The knitting needles ticked on, and both Dick and Miss Eunice studied their vibrating points, criss-crossing, clicking dry comments over the mystery of the web.
“It is my constant prayer that Camilla may be happy,” said Miss Eunice at last. “I have felt—I have examined the feeling with great care—I have felt, that, if she saw her happiness in your happiness, it would be wise to believe her instinct had guided her well. My brother's thoughts, his hopes, are all in Camilla. He could not live without her. He depends upon her to such an extent,—as you know, of course.”
“Of course, Miss Eunice.”
“I have grieved that she seemed so wayward. I have wished to see this anxious question settled. You have been almost of the family since she was a child, and if she saw her happiness in—in you, I should feel quite contented, quite secure—of her finding it there, and of my brother's satisfaction, in the end. He must not be separated from her. He could not—I think he could not outlive it. And in this way I should feel secure that—that you would understand.”
“I hope I should deserve your tribute. I'm more than glad to have it.”
“Perhaps this long intimacy, which makes me feel secure, is, at the same time, the trouble with her?”
“But why, Miss Eunice? I don't understand that. It has struck me so. And yet I love Camilla the more for all I know of her, and the better for the time. How can it be so different with her?”
“That is true. I don't doubt it, Richard.”