her. He was about to take the reins, when he looked up, saw her, and remained standing. She noticed the intensely wistful expression of his face.
"Are you going, Elwood,—and alone?" she asked.
"Yes," he said eagerly; and waited.
"Then I will go with you,—that is, if you will take me." She tried to speak lightly and playfully.
In a few minutes they were out of town, passing between the tawny fields and under the russet woods. A sweet west wind fanned them with nutty and spicy odors, and made a crisp, cheerful music among the fallen leaves.
"What a delicious change!" said Lucy, "after that stifling, dreadful room."
"Ay, Lucy—and think how Joseph will feel it! And how near, by the chance of a hair, we came of missing the truth!"
"Elwood!" she exclaimed, "while I was giving my testimony, and I found your eyes fixed on me, were you thinking of the counsel you gave me, three weeks ago, when we met at the tunnel?"
"I was!"
"I knew it, and I obeyed. Do you now say that I did right?"
"Not for that reason," he answered. "It was your own heart that told you what to do. I did not mean to bend or influence you in any way: I have no right."
"You have the right of a friend," she whispered.
"Yes," said he, "I sometimes take more upon myself than I ought. But it's hard, in my case, to hit a very fine line."
"O, you are now unjust to yourself, Elwood. You are both strong and generous."
