“Has she told you what has befallen me?” whispered he to her.
“In part—that is, something of it. As much as she could in a word or two; but do not speak of it now.”
“If I do not now, Florence, I can never have the courage again.”
“Then be it so,” she said eagerly. “I am more anxious to see you strong and well again, than to hear how you became wretched and unhappy.”
“But if you do not hear the story from myself, Florence, and if you should hear the tale that others may tell of me—if you never know how I have been tried and tempted—”
“There, there—don’t agitate yourself, or I must leave you; and, sec, Milly is remarking our whispering together.”
“Does she grudge me this much of your kindness?”
“No; but—there—here she comes with your tea.” She drew a little table in front of him, and tried to persuade him to eat.
“Your sister has just made me a very generous promise, Emily,” said he. “She has pledged herself—even without hearing my exculpation—to believe me innocent; and although I have told her that the charges that others will make against me may need some refutation on my part, she says she’ll not listen to them. Is not that very noble—is it not truly generous?”
“It is what I should expect from Florence.”