"Yes, yes," said he, "you must never leave them."
She turned, she twisted, she tortured her hands in her endeavor to keep down the evidences of her desire and her anxiety.
"If—if this house should be blown down in a storm or—or a fire should consume it as you say, they would have to go elsewhere, have to marry these young men, have to be happy in spite of themselves."
"But what cyclones ever come here?" he asked, with his mockery of a smile. "Or where could a fire spring from in a house guarded by a Doris?"
She was trembling so she could not answer. "Come out here again at six o'clock," said she; "they will miss me if I stay too long now. Oh, sir, how I wish I could see those two poor loves happy again!"
"How I wish you could!" said he, and there was nothing in his tone for her ears but benevolence.
As Huckins crept from the garden-gate he ran against Frank, who was on his way to the station.
"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, cringing, "I am sure I beg your pardon. Going up to town, eh?"
"Yes, and I advise you to do the same," quoth the other, turning upon him sharply. "The Misses Cavanagh are not well enough at present to entertain visitors."
"You are no doubt right," returned Huckins with his meekest and most treacherous aspect. "It is odd now, isn't it, but I was just going to say that it was time I left them, much as I love the poor dears. They seem so happy now, and their prospects are so bright, eh?"