After dinner, in the twilight, he spoke again. "You said, an hour or two ago, that I had treated you as though you were a child. It is true; for you were a child at Caryl's, and I remembered you as you were then. But you are much changed; looking at you now, it is impossible that I should ever think of you in the same way again."
She made no reply.
"Can you tell me nothing of yourself, of your personal life since we parted? Your engagement, for instance?"
"It is ended. Mr. Pronando is married; he married my sister. You did not see the notice?" (Anne's thoughts were back in the West Virginia farm-house now with the folded slip of newspaper.)
"No; I was in the far West until April. I did not come eastward until the war broke out. Then you are free, Anne? Do not be afraid to tell me; I remember every word you said in Miss Vanhorn's little red parlor, and I shall not repeat my mistake. You are, then, free?"
"I can not answer you."
"Then I will not ask; it all belongs to the one subject, I suppose. The only part intrusted to me—the secret of your being here—I will religiously guard. As to your present life—you would rather let this Herr Scheffel continue looking for a place for you?"
"Yes."
"I will not interfere. But I shall write to you now and then, and you must answer. If at the end of a month you have not obtained this position you are hoping for—in a church choir, is it not?—you must let me know. Will you promise?"
"I promise."