Dan's face is very pale as he sits, with no sign of impatience upon him, expectant of Ellen's coming. The door opens and Mrs. Marvel enters. She draws down the blind--the moonlight has been streaming in upon his face, giving it a more painful pallor than that which rests on it when the moon is shut out--and sits down by his side in silence for a while. She draws his head upon her breast, and kisses him; his arm steals round her neck, and he sheds tears, and kisses her in return; but few words pass between them.
"Has she said any thing?" he asks anxiously.
He gives a soft sigh of relief. She knows that he is waiting for Ellen, and she will not linger. She kisses him again in her motherly way, and bids him goodnight; and soon after Ellen enters the room.
A great change has taken place in Ellen. All the girlishness has gone out of her face, and in its stead is an expression of quiet trustfulness in which there is much sadness, but no doubt. It is as though she is prepared to defend and believe in her husband's honor, though all the world condemn him. She closes the door gently, and draws a chair next to Dan. Then those two faithful souls, to each of whom the bitterest of trials has come, look into each other's eyes, and are comforted by what they see. They exchange no words of sympathy; none are needed from one to the other. They make no effort to conceal their sorrow; it must be borne, and they must suffer. But for Joshua's sake, and for Minnie's, they must be brave and hopeful.
Does Ellen acknowledge this, and in her heart of hearts is she disposed to be generous to the unhappy girl who has brought this great misery upon them? Yes--she feels nothing but pity for Minnie. The influences which actuate mental feeling are so delicate and various, that it is difficult even to the most profound of pathognomists to dissect the commonest of motives, and rightly account for it. We all pride ourselves, in a greater or less degree, upon our knowledge of character, and believe that we know full well what prompted So-and-so to do such-and-such a thing. But in truth, in nothing do we show more ignorance than in arrogating to ourselves the power of divining character and motive. Strive as we may be just and calm and reasonable--strive as we may to banish for the time the small feelings of uncharitableness which we are conscious of harboring, and which necessarily warp our judgment--we must from very necessity argue in a certain measure from our own point of view. Otherwise we should be infallible, and juries would never return a wrong verdict, and judges would never commit an error of judgment. Otherwise rogues would have their due; and some of them would not, as they do now, live in fine houses, and eat and drink of the best. It is impossible to put yourself in another man's place.
