Mother! That was what they had been discussing so secretly.
"I'm sorry mother could talk about it," said I. "It wasn't fair. It's a pity such things should be talked about when they are never going to come to anything."
"Why is it never going to come to anything?" asked Trayton Harrod.
"That's my own business," said I, defiantly.
"Yes, that's true," answered he; "but I had thought, as I have said, that we were good enough friends for you to let a little of your business be mine also. I beg your pardon."
His tone unaccountably irritated me, but his allusion to our friendship touched me nevertheless.
"You needn't beg my pardon," said I, more quietly; "only I don't want you to talk any more about that. Mother may be mistaken about the squire wanting to marry me. I hope he does not. If he does, I shall find my own way of telling him it couldn't be."
"Well, Miss Margaret, if I'm offending you by speaking of the matter, I must hold my tongue," said Harrod; "but I feel as if I must tell you that I think you are making a great mistake."
I did not answer, and he went on:
"Your father is in a bad way. He would be very much relieved to think that one of you was comfortably settled for life. Apart from anything that you could do for him in this crisis, and which, no doubt, he has not thought of, you must see for yourself how that would be so."