"To tell you the truth, I had shut myself up, and tried to be as indifferent to the election as if I'd been one of the fishes in the Lapp, till the noises got too strong for me. But I only saw the tail end of the disturbance. The poor noisy simpletons seemed to give way before the magistrates and the constables. I hope nobody has been much hurt. The fear is that they may turn out again by-and-by; their giving way so soon may not be altogether a good sign. There's a great number of heavy fellows in the town. If they go and drink more, the last end may be worse than the first. However——"
Felix broke off, as if this talk was futile, clasped his hands behind his head, and, leaning backward, looked at Esther, who was looking at him.
"May I stay here a little while?" he said, after a moment, which seemed long.
"Pray do," said Esther, coloring. To relieve herself she took some work and bowed her head over her stitching. It was in reality a little heaven to her that Felix was there, but she saw beyond it—saw that by-and-by he would be gone, and that they should be farther on their way, not toward meeting, but parting. His will was impregnable. He was a rock, and she was no more to him than the white clinging mist-cloud.
"I wish I could be sure that you see things just as I do," he said abruptly, after a minute's silence.
"I am sure you see them much more wisely than I do!" said Esther, almost bitterly, without looking up.
"There are some people one must wish to judge truly. Not to wish it would be mere hardness. I know you think I am a man without feeling—at least, without strong affections. You think I love nothing but my own resolutions."
"Suppose I reply in the same sort of strain?" said Esther, with a little toss of the head.
"How?"
"Why, that you think me a shallow woman, incapable of believing what is best in you, setting down everything that is too high for me as a deficiency."