"I've not seen Mary yet," said he, when I asked. "I have been away for hours. I couldn't see her till I had seen you first. The fact is, Kitty, I'm in dreadful trouble, and if you can't help me nobody can."
"Oh, what can I do? I would do anything," I cried. "Then doesn't Mary know you are here?"
"Nobody knows," said he. "I left word I meant to be home as early as I could. But I don't know, I'm sure, whether—"
"Then she is all alone there," I said, thinking how I had pictured the two making merry together.
"Yes, I suppose so," said he. "It can't be helped. I meant to catch you earlier somehow, and I couldn't. I was watching from the hill, and I saw you go out, and come this way, so went round and got to the common too. But it was ever so long before I could find you."
"And if you hadn't found me at all?" I said, wondering.
"Then—" and he stopped. "But I have—so that doesn't matter," says he. "Kitty, I want your help."
"What help? I'd do anything to help you," I said.
"Anything! Would you?" says he.
"Anything except what's wrong," I said. "And you wouldn't ask that."