What did strike her, as she turned and watched the rich squire's sturdy
form vanish through the doorway into the dark beyond, was a certain
sense of wonder. Supposing she had never seen that shiver of returning
life run up those white limbs, supposing that they had grown colder
and colder, till at length it was evident that death was so firmly
citadelled within the silent heart, that no human skill could beat his
empire back? What then? Owen Davies loved her sister; this she knew and
had known for years. But would he not have got over it in time? Would
he not in time have been overpowered by the sense of his own utter
loneliness and given his hand, if not his heart, to some other woman?
And could not she who held his hand learn to reach his heart? And to
whom would that hand have been given, the hand and all that went
with it? What woman would this shy Welsh hermit, without friends or
relations, have ever been thrown in with except herself--Elizabeth--who
loved him as much as she could love anybody, which, perhaps, was not
very much; who, at any rate, desired sorely to be his wife.
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