“Yes, but do not think of it; we all must do so to-morrow; let us put off the evil day.”
Then he began talking to her of a little tour he had had in Normandy at this very time last year, telling her of the quaint old French towns that he had sojourned in, with their wide ramparts, spreading orchards, and rosy pippins. He spoke well and graphically, and somehow both forgot the time. Suddenly, however, John glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation.
“Why, the day has flown!” he cried. “Do you know it is actually five o’clock, and I left Woodlea at half-past eight. My good uncle will naturally think I have run away.”
“You must tell them—” began May, and then she paused embarrassed.
“I will tell them I went out for an early walk, and by accident met you, who had just made the sad discovery which you did. There is no need to say anything else.”
“No, of course not,” answered May, relieved.
“And I will add that I went back with you to Fern Dene, and saw the poor girl and remained there while you ran home for assistance to your father. This affair is sure to be greatly talked of.”
“Yes, it is most painful to be mixed up in it, and I feel so dreadfully sorry for her poor father.”
“The whole thing is painful—but I must go. Good-by, Miss Churchill—I wonder if you would give me a rose?”
“Oh, yes,” answered May; and she stooped down and plucked a crimson bud. “Will you have this one?”