For all answer Faith hid her head and gave a little moan.  Somehow I couldn’t stand that; so I ran and put my arms round her neck and lifted her face and kissed it, and then we cried together.  And Dan, walking the floor, took up his hat and went out, while she never cast a look after him.  To think of such a great strong nature and such a powerful depth of feeling being wasted on such a little limp rag!  I cried as much for that as anything.  Then I helped Faith into my bedroom, and running home, I got her some dry clothes,—­after rummaging enough, dear knows! for you’d be more like to find her nightcap in the tea-caddy than elsewhere,—­and I made her a corner on the settle, for she was afraid to stay in the bedroom, and when she was comfortably covered there she fell asleep.  Dan came in soon and sat down beside her, his eyes on the floor, never glancing aside nor smiling, but gloomier than the grave.  As for me, I felt at ease now, so I went and laid my hand on the back of his chair and made him look up.  I wanted he should know the same rest that I had, and perhaps he did,—­for, still looking up, the quiet smile came floating round his lips, and his eyes grew steady and sweet as they used to be before he married Faith.  Then I went bustling lightly about the kitchen again.

“Dan,” I said, “if you’d just bring me in a couple of those chickens stalking out there like two gentlemen from Spain.”

While he was gone I flew round and got a cake into the bake-kettle, and a pan of biscuit down before the fire; and I set the tea to steep on the coals, because father always likes his tea strong enough to bear up an egg, after a hard day’s work, and he’d had that to-day; and I put on the coffee to boil, for I knew Dan never had it at home, because Faith liked it and it didn’t agree with her.  And then he brought me in the chickens all ready for the pot, and so at last I sat down, but at the opposite side of the chimney.  Then he rose, and, without exactly touching me, swept me back to the other side, where lay the great net I was making for father; and I took the little stool by the settle, and not far from him, and went to work.

“Georgie,” said Dan, at length, after he’d watched me a considerable time, “if any word I may have said to-day disturbed you a moment, I want you to know that it hurt me first, and just as much.”

“Yes, Dan,” said I.

I’ve always thought there was something real noble between Dan and me then.  There was I,—­well, I don’t mind telling you.  And he,—­yes, I’m sure he loved me perfectly,—­you mustn’t be startled, I’ll tell you how it was,—­and always had, only maybe he hadn’t known it; but it was deep down in his heart just the same, and by-and-by it stirred.  There we were, both of us thoroughly conscious, yet neither of us expressing it by a word, and trying not to by a look,—­both of us content to wait for the next life, when we could belong to one another.  In those days I contrived to have it always pleasure enough for me just to know that Dan was in the room; and though that wasn’t often, I never grudged Faith her right in him, perhaps because I knew she didn’t care anything about it.  You see, this is how it was.