She was even getting a little vicarious happiness out of being a sympathetic friend, and as he grew sad and restless, so she became more gentle and tender, and watched over him like a fond mother with a child.

She would not look ahead or face the fact that he had grown too dear; she was living her Indian summer, she told herself, and would not see its end.
"How awfully good you are to me, Princess," he told her one afternoon, as they walked together in the bright frosty air about a week after Sabine had left them.

"I never have known so kind a woman.

You seem to think of gentle and sympathetic things to say before one even asks for your sympathy.

How greatly I misjudged your nation before I knew you and Sabine!" "No, I don't think you did misjudge us in general," she replied.