was perfectly natural and right; and David tried to feel as untroubled as she about it. He was happy; yes, he felt a happiness which he had never known before. But with it, was wonder and disquiet.
It was the hour of the day at which David Herrick was used to doing something, to be absorbed in following and recording a lecture in class, to be hard at work or to be seriously attentive to a service in church. On recent Sundays, David had not gone to church but he had never been idle when he stayed away. So this idleness, with the prospect of much more of it, was in itself strange to him; and how strange to be married, to be far away from every one with a girl who had no duty to any one else, who had nothing in the world to do but be his wife!
"I'll write to Mr. Jessop, the first time we're tramping over by the railroad," Fidelia said. "He's a dear; and Mrs. Jessop'll be awfully glad I'm married."
"I'll write father," David said. "I know I ought to do it to-day and get it off to-night. It'll be worse, if he hears from somebody else, first."
"Worse," Fidelia repeated and shivered there in the sun. She was sifting the dry, fine sand through her fingers and she gazed down at it. "Worse," she said again.
David accused himself hotly for this hurt of her; he declared, hastily, "I told you he was opposed to my marrying any one at all now. He was opposed to Alice, Fidelia!"
"Not so much as he would be to me."
"That's not so!"
"David, look at me!" she asked, gazing at him.
