"Mr. Harrod, I don't know how you dare to talk to me so," said I, fiercely, but under my breath.
"Dare!" echoed he, with a little laugh that had an awkward ring in it, and yet at the same time a little tone of surprise, "I thought we were friends. Surely one may say as much to a friend?"
"You may not say as much to me," retorted I, in the same tone. "And I don't know why you should think that the squire loves me."
"Is there any insult in that?" smiled he. "I did not suppose so. Surely it is clear to every one that he loves you? I have seen it ever since I have been at the Grange."
"You have seen it!" ejaculated I, dumfounded. "Why, it was Joyce! We all thought it was Joyce!"
"I did not think it was Joyce," said he.
I was silent once more. Ever since he had been at the Grange he had seen that the squire loved me. What, then, had been his attitude towards me? What had ever been his attitude towards me?
"Well, if the squire loves me, he will have to get over it," said I, in a hard, cold voice. I was hurt and sore, and my soreness made me hard for the moment towards the man to whom in my heart I was never anything but reverent. But the very next moment I was sorry; I was ashamed of even a thought that was not all gratitude towards him. "Perhaps," I added, gently, "it is not exactly as you fancy. I am not good enough for the squire."
"Not good enough!" echoed he, and there was a ring of genuine appreciation and loyalty in his voice which set my foolish heart aglow. "I don't see why not. Anyhow, he does not seem to be of that opinion, from what your mother tells me."