In a few minutes they were out of town, passing between the tawny fields and under the russet woods. A sweet west wind fanned them with nutty and spicy odors, and made a crisp, cheerful music among the fallen leaves.
"What a delicious change!" said Lucy, "after that stifling, dreadful room."
"Ay, Lucy—and think how Joseph will feel it! And how near, by the chance of a hair, we came of missing the truth!"
"Elwood!" she exclaimed, "while I was giving my testimony, and I found your eyes fixed on me, were you thinking of the counsel you gave me, three weeks ago, when we met at the tunnel?"
"I was!"
"I knew it, and I obeyed. Do you now say that I did right?"
"Not for that reason," he answered. "It was your own heart that told you what to do. I did not mean to bend or influence you in any way: I have no right."
"You have the right of a friend," she whispered.
"Yes," said he, "I sometimes take more upon myself than I ought. But it's hard, in my case, to hit a very fine line."
"O, you are now unjust to yourself, Elwood. You are both strong and generous."