"Never, Felix; and yet—" she paused, and passed her hand over her eyes--"now you mention it, there seemed to be something familiar in his face as I looked at him. But no, I must be mistaken; I have no recollection of ever having seen him. Why do you ask?"
"I wondered if you had, that is all, Martha. And now" (dismissing the subject), "what is it you intend to do?"
"I don't know--I am bewildered. At one time I think of going away, and bearing my misery until she writes to me again, which she is sure to do soon; then I can speak to her. At another time I think of going up to her, and showing myself. She would be glad to see me, I think; she would not turn her back upon me."
"I am sure she would be glad to see you—"
"Bless you, Felix," cried Martha, in a grateful tone, "for that assurance!"
"But have you thought how you could account for your presence here, Martha? Would not the gentleman who brought her from London be likely to remember that he saw you at the ticket-office? Would not Lizzie be hurt if she thought you had been watching her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Martha, looking up to him for support. "You are right in everything you say; you can see things in a clearer light than I can. I am confused and tired out. It would hurt Lizzie's feelings; and rather than that—"
"Rather than that, if I judge you rightly, you would suffer much without murmuring."
"You judge me rightly, Felix. I would suffer much to save her from the smallest pain."
He gave her a bright look in approval, and pressed her hand.