Poor young man! how sorry she was for him; and how strange that she of all people should be the only one in whom he confided. What secret sorrow could it be that depressed him? Perhaps he, too, had lost his mother. Or could it be something still mote terrible? How glad she would be if only she could help him.
When Rebecca presently came out he was once more the blithest of them all. Only once in a while, when he looked at her, his eyes seemed again to assume that melancholy, half-beseeching expression; and it cut her to the heart when he laughed at the same moment.
At last came the time for departure; there was hearty leave-taking on both sides. But as the last of the packing was going on, and in the general confusion, while every one was finding his place in the carriages, or seeking a new place for the homeward journey, Rebecca slipped into the house, through the rooms, out into the garden, and away to the King’s Knoll. Here she seated herself in the shadow of the trees, where the violets grew, and tried to collect her thoughts.—“What about the violets, Mr. Lintzow?” cried Miss Frederica, who had already taken her seat in the carriage.
The young man had for some time been eagerly searching for the daughter of the house. He answered absently, “I’m afraid it’s too late.”
But a thought seemed suddenly to strike him. “Oh, Mrs. Hartvig,” he cried, “will you excuse me for a couple of minutes while I fetch a bouquet for Miss Frederica?”—Rebecca heard rapid steps approaching; she thought it could be no one but he.
“Ah, are you here, Miss Rebecca? I have come to gather some violets.”
She turned half away from him and began to pluck the flowers.
“Are these flowers for me?” he asked, hesitatingly.
“Are they not for Miss Frederica?”
“Oh no, let them be for me!” he besought, kneeling at her side.