I looked up all teary and flushed, and there was Mr. Brett, staring at me with horrified eyes, and his face as desperate as if he had found me struck by lightning or gored by the black and white bull.
I was so ashamed and confused that I couldn't speak, but just sat there gazing up helplessly at him with tears running down my cheeks, and my lips trembling. The most awful look came into his eyes, and he went as pale as I was red.
"My precious one, my darling!" he stammered, and dropping down on one knee by the big log, he put his arms round me.
"Oh!" I said. And then my head was nestling down into his neck, and instead of being wretched I was perfectly happy.
"Who has dared to make you cry?" he asked, holding me close.
"You," I answered.
"I?"
"I thought you were only being kind to me because--because you're an American and it's your duty to a foreigner."
He laughed at that--an excited, happy laugh, with a queer break in it.
"I've been half out of my mind with love for you, ever since the first day I saw you looking down at me in the steerage. Am I quite out of it now, or can it be true that you care for me--just a little, little bit?"