“This is not like you a bit,” Ethel said, in pained reproachfulness; and then a light broke upon her. She understood. Her heart beat more quickly, and a hot flush mantled her brow. She hoped he would not note her confusion. She must have time to think, to consider. Many grave things might hang upon what he or she might impulsively say on the crumbling edge of a precipice like that. She must not allow her sympathies to rule her. She must never encourage a man whom she did not love with her whole heart, and how was a girl to judge calmly when a man was such a glorified sufferer?
“According to your views, Paul,” she continued, “faith in the goodness of God will bring all possible things.”
“Save the things of earth.” She saw his fine mouth writhe under a sardonic smile as he recklessly plunged into what he knew was mad indiscretion. “A jealous man cannot walk in the footsteps of a jealous God.”
Ethel avoided his desperate and yet frankly apologetic eyes. She shrank within herself. She was sure his words were becoming dangerously pertinent. She kept silence for a moment. Then she paused at a lichen-grown boulder, rested a white, throbbing hand on it, and listlessly surveyed the trees about the farm-house.
“I am sure you cannot possibly realize the good you are doing,” she said, with abrupt irrelevance. “I want to tell you something. It is about my cousin Henry. You know I have never liked him very much, but the other day I was thrown with him at the dinner-table after the others had left. He was very downcast and sad over some recent trouble with his father, and, to my great surprise, he spoke regretfully of his useless life. He said you had talked to him, given him good advice, and that you had helped him borrow money to go into business on at Grayson. Paul, I am sure you won't lose by it. He told me, with tears in his eyes, that he would rather die than disappoint you.”
“I am sure he will succeed,” Paul said. “He has energy and enthusiasm, and is anxious to prove himself. I was surprised to have the bank accept my indorsement, but they did quite readily. I really have great faith in him. He is ashamed of himself, and that is a fine beginning.”
Ethel was turning, to proceed higher up on the road, but he stopped her.
“We must not get beyond the sound of the breakfast-bell,” he warned her.
“No, for I am hungry,” she answered, eying him still with anxious studiousness. She turned back toward the farm-house, hesitated a moment, and then said: “Did you happen to see the—the flowers on the mantelpiece in your room? I gathered them and put them there yesterday.”
“Oh, did you?” he cried, eagerly. “That was very kind of you. I thought that Mrs. Tilton did it. They fill the whole room with fragrance.”