"
I hardly knew what to say in reply, for I was just as troubled as she
about David. He wandered off by himself, in the chill autumn evenings,
returned late, and stole off to his bed in silence. Stories of suicides
came to me. A man who never spoke might do anything. And this, I
thought, was the point. If I could only make him speak!
He had always been more open with me than anybody,--had expressed
himself freely about the homestead, and his plans for redeeming it, and
about his anxiety for Emily. I could certainly, I thought, bring him to
speak of his trouble, if I only had for him a sure word of
encouragement. But this I had not, because Mary Ellen was such a puzzle.
Her openness served better for hiding the truth than did David's
reserve. At the bottom of my heart, though, was full faith in her love
for him. I paid her the compliment of believing she was too good to care
seriously for such a man as Warren Luce. But, then, I couldn't give my
faith to David.
How would it do to make a bold move,--to speak to her? Might I not show
her how much was at stake, and in some way have my faith confirmed?
Would, or wouldn't it answer for me to do this? Should, or shouldn't I
make bungling work of it? I turned the matter over in my mind, to assure
myself of my right to intermeddle.
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