could look up into her restful face, while he held one of her hands
across his lips. It was a good face to see: her clear brown eyes were
large and full, with heavy lids which drooped a little at the outer
corners, giving a look of questioning sincerity, which does not often
outlast childhood. Her bronze-brown hair was knotted low on her neck, and
rippled a little over a smooth white forehead.

John had begun to stroke her hand softly, holding it up to shield his
eyes from the firelight, and twisting the plain band of her wedding ring
about.

"What a dear hand," he said; "how strong and firm it is!"

"It is large, at least," she answered, smiling. He measured it against
his own gaunt thin hand, which always had a nervous thrill in the pale
fingers. "You see, they are about the same size, but mine is certainly
much whiter. Just look at that ink-stain; that means you write too much.
I don't like you to be so tired in the evenings, John."

"You rest me," he said, looking up into her face. "It is a rest even to
sit here beside you. Do you know, Helen," he went on, after a moment's
pause, "if I were in any pain, I mean any physical extremity, I would
have strength to bear it if I could hold your hand; it is so strong and
steady."

She lifted her hand, and looked at it with amused curiosity, turning it
about, "to get the best light upon it."

"I am in earnest," John said, smiling. "It is the visible expression of
the strength you are to me. With your help I could endure any pain. I