She paused a moment, covering her face. But very soon she sat down, so quiet and pale that Sara was deceived.
“You do not mind it, then, Olive—you are not angry with me?” she said soothingly.
“Angry with you—how could I be?”
“Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance.”
“Oh, no, no!” And the cheerful good-natured voice seemed to make Olive shrink with pain. “Sara, dear Sara, let me go home!”
CHAPTER XIII.
“Well, my love, was the ball as pleasant as you expected?” said Mrs. Rothesay, when Olive drew the curtains, and roused her invalid mother to the usual early breakfast, received from no hands but hers.
Olive answered quietly, “Every one said it was pleasant.”
“But you,” returned the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce disguise—“who talked to you?—who danced with you?”