"We will camp out up there during all of July and August," he said to her one morning, as they stood on the edge of the woods and watched the rising sun pick out the redwoods one by one from the black mass on the mountain. "I can't imagine a more enchanting place for a honeymoon than a redwood forest. We'll take a servant, and a lot of books; but I doubt if we shall read much,—we'll shoot and fish all day. If we like it as much as I am sure we shall, we'll build a house there. Do you think you should like it?"
"Oh, I should! I should!"
"You are so sympathetic in your own particular way; not temperamentally so, which is pleasant but means little, but with a slow, sure understanding which goes forth to few people, but is unerring and permanent."
"I love no one but you and Helena. I have never cared to understand anyone else."
"We all have great weaknesses in us. I wonder if mine were ever revealed to you—which God forbid!—if you have sympathy enough to cover those, too."
"I am sure that I have. I am neither quick nor generally affectionate, but I do nothing by halves."
"I believe you. You are the one person on whose mercy I would throw myself. However,—it is a long time since we have spoken of another subject. Do you think no further of writing?"
"I haven't lately. There has been no time. Some day—Oh, yes, I think I should never wholly give it up. Should—should you object?"
"Not in the least. But I am afraid I sha'n't give you much time, either. What were you writing,—your Old-California tales?"
"No,—an—an historical novel—English."