"Fond?" says Monica, as though the idea is a new one to her. "Fond? Yes, I suppose so; but we were all much fonder of my father. Not that either he or mamma took very much notice of us."
"Were they so much wrapt up in each other, then?"
"No, certainly not," quickly. Then with an amount of bitterness in her tone that contrasts strangely with its usual softness, "I wonder why I called my mother 'mamma' to you just now. I never dared do so to her. Once when she was going away somewhere I threw my arms around her and called her by that pet name; but she put me from her, and told me I was not to make a noise like a sheep."
She seems more annoyed than distressed as she says this. Desmond is silent. Perhaps his silence frightens her, because she turns to him with a rather pale, nervous face.
"I suppose I should not say such things as these to you," she says, unsteadily. "I forgot, it did not occur to me, that we are only strangers."
"Say what you will to me," says Desmond, slowly, "and be sure of this, that what you do say will be heard by you and me alone."
"I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh.
"And, besides, we are not altogether strangers," he goes on, lightly; "that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, the river," she says, smiling.
"Our river. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property: no one else seems to know anything about it."