“She’ll forgive me. She’ll forgive me, and like me better than ever; you’ll see.”
“And is it a question of you? It is her husband, her faith in him, her love for him,” said Eve, passionately.
“Oh, as to that, she will forgive him the very first moment she sees him,” answered Paul, going off.
Early in the morning of the second day, Cicely sent for him. “If you don’t still believe in him, if you don’t still love him—” she began the instant he entered, her poor little voice trying to be a threat.
“Of course I believe in him.”
“And he is noble? and good?”
“If you can call him that—to-day—you are a trump,” said Paul, delightedly.
He had gained his point; and, by one of the miracles of love, she could forgive her husband and excuse his fault; she could still worship him, believe in him. Paul also believed in him, but in another way. And upon this ground they met, Paul full of admiration for what he called her pluck and common-sense (both were but love), and she adoring him for his unswerving affection for his brother. Paul would go South soon; he would—he would make arrangements. She pinned all her faith upon Paul now; Paul was her demi-god because he believed in his brother.
And thus the camp-life went on again.
One morning, not long after this, Hollis and the judge were sitting at the out-door table, engaged with their fishing-tackle. Hollis was talking of the approaches of old age.