"
"Then think of the lonely girl up there on the hill, Mark," Tim said.
He joined me at the fireplace, and we stood side by side, as often we
had stood in the old days, warming our hands, and watching the
crackling flames. "Do you blame her? I had gone, vowing never to come
back again till she kept her promise to you; you had fled from her--she
wrote, and no word came. And Weston is a wise man and a kind man, and
when she turned to him she found comfort. Do you blame her?"
"No," I said, half hesitating.
"After all, it's better, too," Tim went on. "What could you have given
her, Mark--or I, compared to what his wealth means to a woman like
Mary?"
Wealth was not happiness. Money was not peace. Etches were a
delusion. Now she had them. That was what Weston would give her, and
I wished her joy. True, he loved the girl. True, he offered her just
what I did, and with it he gave those fleeting joys that wealth brings.
She should be happy--just as much so as if she had made herself a
fellow-prisoner with me here in the little valley.
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