had stood in the old days, warming our hands, and watching the
crackling flames. "Do you blame her? I had gone, vowing never to come
back again till she kept her promise to you; you had fled from her--she
wrote, and no word came. And Weston is a wise man and a kind man, and
when she turned to him she found comfort. Do you blame her?"

"No," I said, half hesitating.

"After all, it's better, too," Tim went on. "What could you have given
her, Mark--or I, compared to what his wealth means to a woman like
Mary?"

Wealth was not happiness. Money was not peace. Etches were a
delusion. Now she had them. That was what Weston would give her, and
I wished her joy. True, he loved the girl. True, he offered her just
what I did, and with it he gave those fleeting joys that wealth brings.
She should be happy--just as much so as if she had made herself a
fellow-prisoner with me here in the little valley. For what had I to
offer her? The love of a crippled veteran; the wealth of a petty
farmer; the companionship of a crotchety pedagogue. What joy it would
give her ambitious soul as the years went on to watch her husband
develop; to see him growing in the learning of the store; to have him
ranking first among the worthies of the bench; to greet him as he
hobbled home at night after a busy day at nothing! It was better as it
was--aye--a thousand times.

But there was Tim. What a man Tim was, and how blind I had been and
selfish! He stood before me tall and strong, watching me with his
quiet eyes, and as I looked at him I thought of Weston, the lanky
cynic, with his thin, homely face and loose-jointed, shambling walk.