"Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face.
But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van, her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl.
"Don't talk," she said, hastily, "let me do the talking. I want you to help me, will you?"
"Of course, I will," and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me.
Her voice was indistinct and a little hoarse, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any assistance in my power.
"There wasn't any parcel in the big vase," I said, in a low voice, as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation.
"No, here it is," and she handed me a little box, "Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you. Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone, to hunt me down, will you?"
"Why, how can I help it?"
"Oh, can't you?" and she sounded so disappointed; "I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Schuyler not to have him."
"But Mrs. Schuyler doesn't want him, either!" I exclaimed. "It's those two sisters who insist on getting him. And I never could turn their wills, try as I might."