"Shall I ask her?"
Stanton's wistful face proved how greatly he would enjoy such an
arrangement, but after a moment he said decisively: "No. It would
pain her to decline, but she would."
"You are very considerate of her."
"She is sorry for me, Ida. I can see that. She has never exulted
a moment in her power over me. My love is only another burden
to her sad life. I can't help it, but I can make it as light as
possible."
Tears came into Ida's eyes and she faltered: "Ik, I understand
you."
A little later they both drove off their different ways.
In spite of everything, Ida found that her heart would grow light
and gland as she pursued her way along the quiet country road, now
in the shade where the trees crowded up on the eastern side, and
again in the sunlight between wide stubble fields in which the
quails were whistling mellowly to each other.
Van Berg watched her coming with a heart that beat a little quickly
for so cool and philosophical an investigator, and was glad that
her quiet old horse resumed a slow walk at the first suggestion of
the hill on which he had posted himself.
Ida leaned back in the phaeton with the abandon of those who think
themselves alone, and sang a snatch from an old English hymn that
Van Berg remembered as one his mother had crooned over him when a
child.
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