However, there was physical suffering. It came and went, and at such moments she saw the traces of it in the tightening of his lips, and longed with womanly intuition to alleviate it. She had not spoken—although she could have cried aloud; she knew not what to say. And then suddenly she reached out and touched his hand. Nor could she have accounted for the action.
“Are you in much pain?” she asked.
She felt him tremble.
“No,” he said; “it's only a spell—I've had 'em before. I—I can drive in a few minutes.”
“And do you think,” she asked, “that I would allow you to go the rest of the way alone?”
“I guess I ought to thank you for comin' with me,” he said.
Victoria looked at him and smiled. And it was an illuminating smile for her as well as for Hilary. Suddenly, by that strange power of sympathy which the unselfish possess, she understood the man, understood Austen's patience with him and affection for him. Suddenly she had pierced the hard layers of the outer shell, and had heard the imprisoned spirit crying with a small persistent voice,—a spirit stifled for many years and starved—and yet it lived and struggled still.
Yes, and that spirit itself must have felt her own reaching out to it—who can, say? And how it must have striven again for utterance—
“It was good of you to come,” he said.
“It was only common humanity,” she answered, touching the horse.