“Oh! I don’t need help.” She turned a slightly challenging look upon him. “It is no hardship to me, no trouble to keep my little secret.”
“You are really unkind now, Hilda.”
“No,”—her smile dwelt on him meditatively; “but I see no reason, no necessity for telling you. I have nothing naughty to confess!” and there was a touch of pride in her laugh.
“Yes, you are unkind, for you turn my real anxiety to a jest.”
“You must not be anxious.” Her eyes still rested on his, sweetly and gently.
“Not when I see you surrounded by an atmosphere of carping criticism? When I see you coming home, night after night, worn out, too fatigued to speak? When I see that you are thin and white and sad?”
Hilda drew herself up a little.
“Oh, you are mistaken. But—how kind of you!” and again the irradiated look lit up her face.
“Does that surprise you? Hilda, Katherine is in the dark about this too?”
“Katherine knows; but please don’t ask her about it.”