So Margaret spoke, and then she sighed, remembering the reason why she should not attend soap-bubble parties.
“I’m selfish enough to be glad you could not go,” said Barton; “for then I should have missed you. But why do you sigh?”
“I have had a good many things to make me unhappy,” said Margaret, “in addition to my—to my accident. You must not think I am always bewailing myself. But perhaps you know that I lost my father, just before I entered Mrs. St. John Deloraine’s service, and then my whole course of life was altered.”
“I am very sorry for you,” said Barton, simply. He did not know what else to say; but he felt more than his conventional words indicated, and perhaps he looked as if he felt it and more.
Margaret was still too weak to bear an expression of sympathy, and tears came into her eyes, followed by a blush on her pale, thin cheeks. She was on the point of breaking down.
There is nothing in the world so trying to a young man as to see a girl crying. A wild impulse to kiss and comfort her passed through Barton’s mind, before he said, awkwardly again:
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am; I wish I could do anything for you. Can’t I help you in any way? You must not give up so early in the troubles of life; and then, who knows but yours, having begun soon, are nearly over?”
Barton would perhaps have liked to ask her to let him see that they were over, as far as one mortal can do as much for another.
“They have been going on so long,” said Margaret “I have had such a wandering life, and such changes.”
Barton would have given much to be able to ask for more information; but more was not offered.