So after their supper they used to sit in the pleasant lamplight very
quietly, near together and yet scarcely speaking to each other,
feeling the restful joy of a companionship that had passed into that
deeper zone where silence can be more eloquent than words. He was
reading political economy for the purpose of opening his mind,
"extending the scope of one's int'lect," as he said himself, and she
watched him as he frowned at the page or puckered up his lips with a
characteristic doggedly questioning doubtfulness. Certainly no words
were needed then to enable her to interpret his thought. "Look here,
my lad"--that was how he was mentally addressing a famous author--"I'm
ready to go with you a fair distance; but I don't allow you to take
me an inch further than my reasoning faculty tells me you are on the
right road." When he frowned like this, she smiled and felt much
tenderness. He would always be the same obstinate old dear: ready to
set himself against the whole weight of immemorial authority, whether
in literature or everyday life.
She did not read, but with a large work-basket on a chair by her knees
continued busily sewing until bedtime. And the tenderness that she
felt as she stitched and stitched was overwhelmingly more than she
could feel even for Will.
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