John had begun to stroke her hand softly, holding it up to shield his eyes from the firelight, and twisting the plain band of her wedding ring about.
"What a dear hand," he said; "how strong and firm it is!"
"It is large, at least," she answered, smiling. He measured it against his own gaunt thin hand, which always had a nervous thrill in the pale fingers. "You see, they are about the same size, but mine is certainly much whiter. Just look at that ink-stain; that means you write too much. I don't like you to be so tired in the evenings, John."
"You rest me," he said, looking up into her face. "It is a rest even to sit here beside you. Do you know, Helen," he went on, after a moment's pause, "if I were in any pain, I mean any physical extremity, I would have strength to bear it if I could hold your hand; it is so strong and steady."
She lifted her hand, and looked at it with amused curiosity, turning it about, "to get the best light upon it."
"I am in earnest," John said, smiling. "It is the visible expression of the strength you are to me. With your help I could endure any pain. I wonder," he went on, in a lower voice, as though thinking aloud, "if this strength of yours could inspire me to bear the worst pain there could be for me,—I mean if I had to make you suffer in any way?"
Helen looked down at him, surprised, not quite understanding.
"Suppose," he said,—"of course one can suppose anything,—that for your best good I had to make you suffer: could I, do you think?"
"I hope so," she answered gravely; "I hope I should give you strength to do it."
They fell again into their contented silence, watching the firelight, and thinking tenderly each of the other. But at last Helen roused herself from her reverie with a long, pleasant sigh of entire peace and comfort.