“I don’t think she was quite happy this morning, Mr. Faradeane.”
“Not happy!” he said, slowly. “Why?”
“Well, I think, I am sure she had been crying. She was so pale and—and sad. And, besides,” naïvely, “I know for certain she had been crying, because she smiled and tried to laugh; and I could—could——”
“Hear the tears in her voice,” he said, more to himself than the girl.
Bessie nodded quickly:
“Yes, that’s the words, sir; and it seems so—so dreadful to me that Miss Olivia should have any trouble; it’s just as if an angel were to cry,” and her own eyes grew dim.
“I understand” he said. He stood for a moment looking down at the path, and flicking his leg with his riding whip; then he said: “And Miss Vanley went to the wood, Bessie?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied; “and, oh, Mr. Faradeane, if you——”
She stopped, abashed.
“Well?” he asked, with a faint smile.