“When will you set out?”
“To-morrow!”
“Alone?”
Zulima unconsciously glanced toward the young man; he had been very kind to her, and it seemed hard to start off utterly alone.
“I don’t know,” she faltered; “yes, I shall take the journey alone.”
“Your health seems delicate, you are so young,” urged Smith, reading her thoughts and hoping that she would be guided by the first imprudent impulse.
“I am young—I am not well—but I shall go alone,” she answered, with gentle firmness.
The young man at the window seemed restless. He walked toward a table, and taking up two or three books, cast them back again with an air of impatience. Smith observed this, and smiled quietly within himself, as he went out. Zulima saw nothing: she only knew that she was very, very wretched, and casting her arms over the back of the sofa, buried her face upon them and groaned in bitter anguish.
Zulima was so lost in the agony of her feelings, that she did not know when the young man placed himself by her side. She was quite unconscious of his approach till her hand was in his, and his voice uttered her name in tones that made her nerves thrill from head to foot. Tenderness had given to that voice an intonation startlingly like the low tones of Daniel Clark when love most softened his proud nature.
She started and looked wildly at the young man, her hand trembling in his—her lips parted in a half smile—the delusion had not quite left her.