ng.

Jack, too, had another feeling about it all. It seemed to him that
he had a debt of gratitude--the rasping word had long since lost its
edge--to discharge; and that he owed her every leisure hour he could
steal from his work. He had spent days and nights in the service of his
friends, and had, besides, laid the burden of their anxieties upon her.
He would pay her in return twice as many days of gladness to make up
for the pain she had so cheerfully borne. What could he do to thank
her?--how discharge the obligation? Every hour he would tell her, and
in different ways--by his tenderness, by his obedience to her slightest
wish, anticipating her every want--how much he appreciated her
unselfishness, and how much better, if that were possible, he loved her
for her sacrifice. Nor was there, when the day came, any limit to his
devotion or to her enjoyment. There were rides over the hills in the
soft September mornings--Indian summer in its most dreamy and summery
state; there were theatre parties of two and no more; when they sat in
the third row in the balcony, where it was cheaper, and where, too, they
wouldn't have to speak to anybody else. There were teas in Washington
Square, where nobody but themselves and their hostess were present, as
well as other unexpected outings, in which all the rest of the world was
forgotten.

The house, too, was all their own. Nobody upstairs; nobody downstairs
but the servants; even the emptiness of daddy's room, so grewsome in the
old days, brought a certain feeling of delight. "Just you and me," as
they said a dozen times a day to each other. And then the long talks on
that blessed old sofa with its cushions--(what a wonderful old sofa it
was, and how much it had heard); talks about when she was a girl--as
if she had ever passed the age; and when he was a boy; and of what
they both thought and did in that blissful state of innocence and
inexperience. Talks about the bungalow they would build some day--that
bungalow which Garry had toppled over--and how it would be furnished;
and whether they could not persuade the landlord to sell them the dear
sofa and move it out there bodily; talks about their life during the
coming winter, and whether she should visit Aunt Felicia's--and if so,
whether Jack would come too; and if she didn't, wouldn't it be just as
well for Jack to have some place in Morfordsburg where he could find a
bed in case he got storm-bound and couldn't get back to the cab