—constantly. She prays for him, but she never blames or judges him; she speaks—and I believe she thinks—of only the fine things about him and when they were young together. He loves her too, you know; he was always good to her and faithful. She'd go to him wherever he is, if she could. Love—Barney, it frightens you to see what it can become, how wholly one person can join with another, what complete power over another's happiness one can gain—she was telling me about their first home; it was a cabin in a clearing. They got a cow and a little calf, and when she called them in at night, deer and the fawns used to come up to the bars with the calf to get grain. It was so wild where they were; and they were alone. She wants to see you to-morrow, Barney, if you care to come."
"Me?"
"Yes; I told her we—"
"What, Ethel?"
"What do we, Barney?"
"Love you, I do. Ethel, you're not afraid?"
"Of your power over me?"
"You've had every power over me, Ethel, since our first day!"
He put his arm about her, drawing her to him; but for a moment she held back to look into his eyes. "I didn't mean the sight of grandmother's love made me afraid, dear. To know it made me want you as never before!"
Later, as they walked down the wood road to Wheedon's, "Sing, Barney," she commanded. "That song you sang after you left me that day on the Rock. 'A Paris; à Paris—"
"Ah, j'y étais mousquetaire!"
