n they came; a room upstairs was set apart for work.

Emma wore a slightly anxious look; it showed even through her happiness.
None the less, the very perceptible change which the last few months had
wrought in her was in the direction of cheerful activity; her motives
were quicker, her speech had less of self-distrust, she laughed more
freely, displayed more of youthful spontaneity in her whole bearing.
The joy which possessed her at Richard's coming was never touched with
disappointment at his sober modes of exhibiting affection. The root of
Emma's character was steadfast faith. She did not allow herself to judge
of Richard by the impulses of her own heart; those, she argued, were
womanly; a man must be more independent in his strength. Of what a man
ought to be she had but one criterion, Richard's self. Her judgment on
this point had been formed five or six years ago; she felt that nothing
now could ever shake it. All of expressed love that he was pleased
to give her she stored in the shrine of her memory; many a light word
forgotten by the speaker as soon as it was uttered lived still as a part
of the girl's hourly life, but his reticences she accepted with no less
devout humility. What need of repetitions? He had spoken to her the
decisive word, and it was a column established for ever, a monument
of that over which time had no power. Women are too apt to make their
fondness a source of infinite fears; in Emma growth of love meant growth
of confidence.

'Does all go well at the works?' was her first question. For she had
made his interests her own, and was following in ardent imagination the
undertaking which stamped her husband with nobility.

Richard talked on the subject for some moments; it was easier to do so
than to come at once to the words he had in mind. But he worked round by
degrees, fighting the way hard.

'The house is empty at last.'

'Is it? And you have gone to live there?'

'Not yet. I must get some furniture in first.'

Emma kept silence; the shadows of a smile journeyed trembling from her
eyes to her lips.

The question voiced itself from Richard:

'When will you be ready to go thither?'

'I'm afraid--I don't think I must leave them just yet--for a little
longer.'

He did not look at her. Emma was reading his face; the characters had
become all at once a little puzzling; her own fault, of course, but the
significance she sought was not readily discoverable.

'Can't they manage with