“You are very good to me, sir,” she said, in a very low voice. “Yes, it is a nice shawl, isn’t it? It is one of dear Miss Olivia’s. She brought it down to me this morning, and put it round me with her own, dear hands.”
His own hands fell from the shawl, and his eyes dropped.
“That was kind of her,” he said, almost coldly.
“Kind! Why, she is all kindness, she and you, Mr. Faradeane.”
He smiled absently.
“I’m afraid I’m made of something more than that, Bessie. And Miss Vanley has been here, has she? Has she gone back to the house?”
“No,” said Bessie, gravely. “She said she was going into the Spinney—the wood, you know, sir.”
She paused a moment, looking wistfully at him, and with the quick intuition which was a never-ceasing subject of Bertie’s admiration, he said:
“Well, Bessie?”
She colored, and plucked at the fringe of the shawl.