“My sweet child, there is not anything to forgive. As to those trinkets, I never believed they were so handsome till I saw them on you.”
“It was wrong—very wrong; but I was alone, and I thought no one would ever see me. If I was sure you had forgiven me——”
“Be sure, my dear child,” said he, as he smoothed back her golden hair, caressing the beautiful head with his wasted fingers, “and now that I have assured you of this, tell me what it was you wished to speak of to me. You had a trouble, you said—what was it, Kate?”
“May I tell you of it?” asked she, lifting her eyes for the first time towards him, and gazing upwards through her tears.
“To be sure you may, child, and with the certainty that you speak to one who loves you.”
“But I do not know how I can tell it—that is, how you are to believe what I shall tell you, when I am not able to say why and how I know the truth of what I shall say.”
“More likely is it, child, I shall not ask that question, but take your word for it all.”
“Yes, that is true; it is what you would do. I ought to have seen that,” muttered she, half aloud. “Are we certain to be alone here? Can I tell you now?”
“Certainly. They are off to see the gardens. None will interrupt us: say on.”
“Mind,” said she, eagerly, “you are not to ask me anything.” “I agree. Go on.” “At the same time, you shall be free to find out from others whether I have misled you or not.” “Go on, my dear child, and do not torment yourself with needless cares. I want to hear what it is that grieves you, and if I can remove your sorrow.”