“Are you going already?” said she, taking the hand I offered, and not immediately letting it go.
“Why should I stay any longer?”
“Wait till Arthur comes, at least.”
Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the window.
“You told me you were not changed,” said my companion: “you are—very much so.”
“No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.”
“Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had when last we met?”
“I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.”
“It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now—unless to do so would be to violate the truth.”
I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer, she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own, excited feelings, or to relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas-rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips and said: