A horrible thought comes into my head. Suppose—of course it is impossible—but suppose Mr. Carrington were to come in now, and in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will not mother and Dora think? What is to prevent their drawing a conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in the least believe it was my picture Mr. Carrington was seen embracing, still the very idea that it might be, and that he might at any time speak of it turns me cold. Something must be done, and that quickly. Without further hesitation I rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with our visitor.
I lay my hand upon the front of his coat, and whisper hurriedly:—-
"Do not say a word about my picture, not a word. Do you understand?" I have raised my face very close to his in my anxiety, and shake him slightly to emphasize my words.
"I do;" replies he, placing his hand over mine as it lies almost unconsciously upon his breast. "Of course I will not. But—why—-"
"Nothing," I say; "at least only a fancy. Go now. I will tell you some other time."
"Phyllis, will you meet me at the oak-tree to-morrow evening at five—at four?" he asks, eagerly, detaining me as I seek to escape; and I say, "Yes," with impatient haste, and, tearing my hand out of his, I turn my back upon him and gladly disappear.
CHAPTER XI.
"At last! How late you are! I thought you were never coming," is Mr. Carrington's somewhat impatient greeting next evening, as he advances to meet me from under the old oak-tree. My cheeks are flushed with the rapidity of my walk; my breath rushes from me in short, quick, little gasps.
"I was so busy, I could not come a moment sooner. I would not be here at all but that I promised, and was afraid you would think me out of my senses yesterday," I say, laughing and panting.
"I certainly thought you rather tragical, and have been puzzling my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me."