It showed in Mr Snow’s face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of The Puritan, but the look that was coming and going on his wife’s face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand.
“Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?” said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence.
Mr Snow smiled.
“Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess,” said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window.
“It is a bonny day,” said Mrs Snow, softly.
“Yes, it is kind of pleasant.”
There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not needed between these two by this time. They had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world—so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day.
But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy.
“I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it.”
“It is good to see you sitting there,” said Mr Snow, for answer.