Sybil buried her face in her hands and burst into tears; but when he attempted to question her, she broke from him.
"Let me go!" she exclaimed. "I blush for my own weakness. Let me go, Edward Laurence!"
She hurried away, leaving him bewildered and troubled. For the first time he felt dimly that Sybil loved him, and the consciousness brought a host of inexplicable feelings to his heart. She looked so lovely in her distress—her gentleness, in contrast with Margaret's violence and ill-temper, was so touching, that her image lingered in his imagination—the only ray of light in all the blackness which surrounded him.
As Hinchley and his cousin passed up the hill, they saw Sybil Chase conversing with a little group of friends.
"I have a horror of that woman," said Ralph.
"Yet she seems a quiet, sensible person," replied Margaret. "I have allowed myself to become prejudiced against her; but when I am in her society I forget it all."
Hinchley did not answer. The remembrance of that terrible night in California came back, as was always the case, when Sybil Chase came in sight. Her figure started up instead of the woman he had but half seen, and he turned from the thought with self-abhorrence—it was wicked to indulge it even for an instant.
While they stood together, Laurence approached, pale and agitated, like a man under the excitement of wine.
"Edward!" Hinchley called out, cheerfully. "Laurence, is it not almost time to go home?"