“I shall never see this old tree again,” he said, as he took it from her. “Nor the house and grounds of Bridgetstown—nor—nor——”
“Nor any one in Ballingoole,” she added, without raising her eyes.
“Do not say that,” he returned gravely; “I hope to see every one, and above all to see you, Betty. What should we have done without you?”
“It was nothing,” she replied, reseating herself wearily. “I have always been at home here, long,” looking at him with a somewhat watery smile, “before you came! When are you going back to India? Soon?”
“As soon as I have settled my mother comfortably in Dublin.”
“Then to-morrow will be good-bye?”
“No, I shall run down again for a day. Betty, I want to ask you something;” he latterly called her by her Christian name quite naturally. “You remember when we came back from Roskeen, where we had always been such good friends—had we not?”
Betty nodded, and stared at an enormous bush of lavender, with a somewhat fixed expression.
“Afterwards, when I met you at home, you would scarcely speak to me, or even look at me—will you tell me the reason of this? for I know you are a girl who always has a reason for her actions.”
“Yes—if you wish it very much—I will,” she answered, drawing a pattern in the gravel with the toe of her shoe, “but I would much rather not tell you.”