David looked at the historian's frank face, and felt the same confidence in him which all felt. He looked, and knew that this man was loyal and good.
"Well, it's just this," David said, quite simply. "I've loved her ever since she was a baby-child. She was my own little sweetheart then. I took care of her when she was a wee thing, and I wanted to look after her when she was a grown woman. It has just been the hope of my life to make Joan my wife."
He paused a moment, and looked straight into the fire.
"I know she is different from others, and cleverer than any of us here, and all that. I know she is always longing to get away from Little Stretton. But I thought that perhaps we might be happy together, and that then she would not want to go. But I've never been quite sure. I've just watched and waited. I've loved her all my life. When she was a wee baby I carried her about, and knew how to stop her crying. She has always been kinder to me than to any one else. It was perhaps that which helped me to be patient. At least, I knew she did not care for any one else. It was just that she didn't seem to turn to any one."
He had moved away from Hieronymus, and stood knocking out the ashes from his pipe.
Hieronymus was silent.
"At least, I knew she did not care for any one else," continued David, "until you came. Now she cares for you."
Hieronymus looked up quickly.
"Surely, surely, you must be mistaken," he said. David shook his head.
"No," he answered, "I am not mistaken. And I'm not the only one who has noticed it. Since you've been here, my little Joan has gone further and further away from me."