She found a kind comforter, who led her to the higher sources of consolation, feeling all the time the deep self-accusation with which the sight of sweet childish penitence must always inspire a grown person.
“And now you will not fear to tell your aunt,” he added, “only it should be when you can mention it without such sad crying.”
“Telling you is almost as good as telling her,” said Rose, “and I feel safe with you,” she added, caressingly drawing his arm round her. “Please tell Aunt Ermine, for my crying does give her such a headache.”
“I will, then, and I think when we all know it, the terrors will leave you.”
“Not when I see Mr. Maddox. Oh, please now you know why, don’t make me walk without you. I do know now that he could not do anything to me, but I can’t help feeling the fright. And, oh! if he was to speak to me!”
“You have not seen him here before?”
“Yes I have, at least I think so. Once when Aunt Ermine sent me to the post-office, and another time on the esplanade. That is why I can’t bear going out without you or Aunt Ailie. Indeed, it is not disliking Tibbie.”
“I see it is not, my dear, and we will say no more about it till you have conquered your alarm; but remember, that he is not likely to know you again. You must be more changed in these three years than he is.”
This consideration seemed to reassure Rose greatly, and her next inquiry was, “Please, are my eyes very red for going home?”
“Somewhat mottled—something of the York and Lancaster rose. Shall I leave you under Tibbie’s care till the maiden blush complexion returns, and come back and fetch you when you have had a grand exhibition of my Indian curiosities?”