last it was simply to her arms around him, his head on her bosom, her
wordless notes of tenderness and consolation.

He was suffering, and chiefly for her, and what a fighter he was! Who but
he would ever have thought of _his_ doing anything?

So there might be cases in which it was really more helpful and generous
not to do things for people, but to let them do for themselves. She
couldn't fancy his doing enough to amount to anything. He oughtn't to! But
if it would make him any happier he should have his make-believe--yes, and
without knowing it was make-believe. Doing things that were of no value to
any one was so disheartening. She knew. Like perfunctory exercise for your
health.

Her own business in Cincinnati proved so brief as to take her breath. His
was more difficult. The plough was still mightier than either sword or pen.
Few markets were open to an inactive man whose hours must be short and
irregular, and whose chief qualifications seemed to be a valiant spirit and
a store of reminiscences, in a time when reminiscences were as easy to get
as advice.

She was delayed in her return, growing more and more anxious at the thought
of his anxiety. When she boarded the south-bound train, she went down the
aisle, looking for a seat, with her short steps hurried as if it would get
her home sooner.

Mrs. Grey leaned over and motioned her, and as she sat down, looked
critically at the bright eyes and pink cheeks. "You certainly do look well
nowadays, Bessie."