“I don’t know,” she replied; “I am weary of being indoors. I feel as if I can not breathe, and yet to go out so soon, so soon”—and she covered her face with her hand.
“My love, I entreat you not to agitate yourself,” said the squire, yet more nervously.
She took her hand from her face; her eyes were dry and hard, and she smiled a bitter smile.
“I did not mean to make a scene,” she said. “I meant to be as if nothing had happened—as if I had still something to live for. I apologize to you, Mr. Temple.”
Again John bowed low his comely head.
“I wish you could understand,” he said, “how deeply and truly I sympathize with your grief—I do, indeed, Mrs. Temple.”
There was the ring of truth in his voice; the gleam of truth in his gray eyes, and Mrs. Temple seemed to understand this.
“Do not let us speak of it,” she said, and as she spoke she seated herself at the table. “Now, tell me where you have both been?”
“We have been over some of the farms,” answered the squire, hastily, and John understood that for some reason or other he did not wish to speak of their visit to Woodside to his wife.