"No, no! wait till she has got over it. She will be all right in a moment; you don't know how brave she is."
Indeed, almost in a moment Leslie had dried her tears.
"Forgive me!" she murmured penitently. "How selfish you must think me! and I am so full of happiness at her happiness too! And it was to this gentleman—this old friend of mine—you gave the fern root, and it was he who drove you and Jenny home in the rain!"
"Yes! isn't it like a fairy story, Leslie? And you are really glad?" she asked wistfully.
Leslie took the upturned face in her hand.
"Gladder than I have ever been in my life—than I have been for, ah! so long!" she corrected herself. "If I could have chosen your future for you I would have chosen just this that fate has planned. You will make each other very, very happy, I know! Now sit down, Mr. Duncombe. I will promise not to—not to cry again. Lucy, cut some bread. I will be back in a moment."
As she left the room, Lucy stole half timidly up to Ralph.
"Oh, how could you think of me after—after loving her!" she whispered.
He bent his head and kissed her.
"Say no more, Lucy," he said gravely. "Let the past bury its dead. Yes I—I loved her; but she—I was no more to her, never could have been more to her, than just a friend. I know it now; are you satisfied, dearest?"