“It is nothing—a spasm—the heat,” he muttered; then he moved slowly to the lodge door and sunk upon the bench outside. “The heat,” he muttered again, “and a ghost of the past.”
Margery went into the cottage, and returned with a glass of water. Sir Douglas took it from her and drank it eagerly.
“I have frightened you, child,” he said, abruptly. “Tell me”—he pressed one hand to his side—“you are called Margery Daw. Your mother—what of her?”
“I have no mother,” Margery replied, and her lip trembled. “I am alone.”
“You live here—have lived here always?” went on Sir Douglas, quickly.
“All my life,” she answered.
He sank back in the seat again.
“It was but my thought,” he murmured; “and yet how like, how like!”
“Are you better now?” asked Margery, gently.
“Yes, child—yes”—he paused a little—“but I shall go no further.” He rose slowly, his eyes wandering now and again to the girl’s face. “But you—you look tired—what are you going to do?”