"My dear child, what is it?"
Her eyes drooped, and tears beaded the lashes.
"You shouldn't have come out. Why did you not send for me?"
"I—I wanted to come. I knew Hanny would be gone. I wanted to see you." She was strangely embarrassed.
He was standing by the side of the chair and took her hand again. How limp and lifeless it seemed!
"I wanted to see you—to ask you, to tell you—oh, how shall I say it!—if you could help me a little. You are so wise, and can think of so many ways—and I am so afraid he loves me—it would not be right—"
Yes, that was it. This bright, charming, well-bred, fortunate young fellow loved her. He could keep her like a little queen. And she had some conscientious scruple about her health, and her trifling lameness, and all. A word from him would keep her where she was. He had carried her in his arms, his little ewe lamb. No man could ever give her the exquisite care that he would be able to bestow. Oh, could he let any one take her out of his life!
Yet some one younger and richer loved her. Yes, he must stand aside.
"My child,"—he would be grave and fatherly,—"I think you are making yourself needless trouble. Why should you refuse a good man's love? You have your beauty, and a gift that is really a genius, and though you may not be as strong as some women, that is no reason why you should deny yourself the choicest blessing of a woman's life."
"But"—she gave a little sob—"I thought you might blame me for being heedless. We have all been such friends. And I don't want anything to mar the perfect pleasantness. I know it is not right because—how can I make you understand! It might wound you if I said it—I think it can never be that kind of love—"