"No, I know he has not been here quite so often of late," said he. "I've noticed it, and I've been sorry. But he'll come back. Never fear, he'll come back," smiled he, looking at me.
The heat in my face grew to fire. "I don't care whether he comes back or not," stammered I.
"No, no, of course not," answered Harrod, quickly, as though he were afraid he had said a foolish thing; "but I care very much. I have pinned my faith on the squire."
Something rose, choking, in my throat. How dared he say that he had pinned his faith on the squire! In what way had he done so; what did he mean?
"I want to have a long talk with you one of these days," he added, gravely.
I looked at him. I think my face must have grown white. I could not make my lips form the words, but I suppose my eyes spoke them, for he added, "About many things." And then after a pause again: "There's something I think squire may be able to do that I haven't been able to do. I want you to ask him."
He spoke in his most hard voice; evidently it cost him a pang to have to say that he had not been able to do that something. "Of course it would be in a different way," he said, half to himself, "and the old man is proud; but it's the only chance." And then he added, "And he would do anything for you."
My eyes must have flamed, for he stopped.
"I shouldn't think of asking the squire anything—no, not anything at all," said I, trying to speak plainly. "I don't understand you."