“Nonsense, man!” said Stephen with a shrug.
A little later Bushrod and Benson drove away together, and Stephen, who had followed them to the door, paused on the porch watching them out of sight. A soft step roused him; his wife stood at his side, and placed a hand on his arm.
“I am sorry,” she said simply.
“You're not to blame,” he said kindly. “I know it's not the sort of thing a woman could have much interest in.”
“Oh, don't let us speak of it again! I want you to remember only that you were happy during these, our last days together, and that I loved you, as I have always loved you, Stephen—sometimes I think better than even you comprehend.”
“Why, you speak as if it were the end of it all, when it's only the beginning! Bush and I will make our fortunes—”
“Oh, why can't we be content to be just poor, Stephen? What does it matter what we lack so long as we have each other? Once, not very long ago, we thought that would be sufficient,” she whispered softly, and to him her every word was a reproach; only his fancied needs, defended by his native stubbornness and his inability to look down any path save that he had chosen, was keeping him true to his purpose.
“But we can't be poor,” he said at last doggedly. “I've wished it were possible, but it's not! We can't stand by and see the fortune go to pot!”
“But I thought our love was enough—it is for me,” she said sadly.
“Why, bless your heart, dear, and so it is!” he cried in a tone of sturdy conviction, slipping an arm about her.