“No—no—are they so very precious? Why do you want to touch them?” said he, sharply, drawing them out of her reach.
“Only that I might help you.”
Mr. Harper regarded her a moment, and then put back the letters into her lap. “Forgive me, I did not mean to be cross with you. But this task confuses me.”
He leaned his elbow on the cabinet, covering his eyes, and stood thus for two or three minutes. Agatha remained silent—who could have intruded on the emotion of a son at such a time? None but a wife who could have stolen into his heart with a closer, dearer claim, and she, alas! she dared not. Weeks ago—when she believed herself wronged—it would have been far easier. The higher he rose, the lower she sank, weighed down by the bitter humility that always comes with fervent love. She watched him—her heart throbbing, bursting, yearning to cast itself at his feet—yet she dared not.
“Now let us look over some other letters. I wonder whether Mary was right, and it is here we shall find the will!”
He, then, was only thinking of letters and wills! Agatha turned away, and went to sit by the window and watch the chrysanthemums.
At last she was attracted back by her husband's voice.
“This is the will, I see, by the endorsement. Take it, Agatha; we will not touch it till the Dugdales come. And here are more letters to my father. Do you think I ought to burn them or look them over first?”
The confidential tone in which he spoke soothed Agatha. It was a sort of tacit acknowledgment of her wifely rights to his trust.
“I think, suppose you look them over”—