“Yes, even in a diseased home.”
Joan had sat a long while in thought with that strange solemnity upon her face that made her womanliness so divine. Her eyes were like the eyes of one who has looked long at a picture afar off. There were pathetic lines about her mouth. She had spoken with Gabriel of his wife and home, spoken like the great-hearted woman that she was, strong words for others to the annihilation of self.
“When she comes back to you, dear—”
The man turned and looked at the face purposeful and pale in the deep shadows.
“Yes.”
“You will be yourself to her.”
“I will try.”
“She must love you,” said the girl, and was silent a moment as though communing with the deep cry of her own heart; “you must live your lives together for the best. As for me, I only want to help you to be happy.”
The man bent his head as though half shamed. His heart was less sacrificial than the girl’s. He had little hope in life outside the green circle of those dusky trees.
“I cannot stand between you, dear.”