Those who understood Sylvia best occasionally said that when she was
unusually gracious it was a sign that she wanted something; but George
would have denied this with indignation.

"If it wouldn't be too painful, you might tell me a little about your
stay in Canada," he said by and by. "You never wrote, and"--he
hesitated--"I heard only once from Dick."

Dick was her dead husband's name, and she sat silent a few moments
musing, and glancing unobtrusively at George. He had not changed much
since she last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked a little
older, and rather more serious. There were faint signs of weariness
which she did not remember in his sunburned face. On the whole,
however, it was a reposeful face, with something in it that suggested a
steadfast disposition. His gray eyes met one calmly and directly; his
brown hair was short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour of
his jaw were firm. George had entered on his thirtieth year. Though
he was strongly made, his appearance was in no way striking, and it was
seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy. But his
friends trusted him.

"It's difficult to speak of," Sylvia began. "When, soon after our
wedding, Dick lost most of his money, and said that we must go to
Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought he was right." She paused
and glanced at George. "He told me what you wished to do, and I'm glad
that, generous as you are, he wouldn't hear of it."

George looked embarrassed.