“I have a heart for any fate,” I returned lightly. “Am I too grave for the occasion?”
“You're always under orders to be cheerful,” Luella broke in, “or at least to explain the reason why.”
“He can't explain,” retorted her mother. “Mr. Knapp won't let him.”
It struck me, on watching mother and daughter, that it was they who were grave. Luella gave an occasional flash of brightness, but seemed tired or depressed, while Mrs. Knapp appeared to struggle against some insistent sorrow. But presently we found a subject in which Luella roused her interest, and her bright mind and ready wit drove away the fancy that had first assailed me. Then some caller claimed the attention of Mrs. Knapp, and I was content to monopolize Luella's conversation for the evening. At last I was constrained to go. Mrs. Knapp was still busied in conversation with her visitor, and Luella followed me once more into the hall.
Again her animation left her, and she was silent; and I, on my side, could think of nothing to say. Then her deep gray eyes flashed upon me a look that sent my pulses throbbing, an indefinable, pleading glance that shook my soul.
“Can't you tell me—won't you tell me?” she said in a low tone that was the complement of the silent speech of the eyes.
“I wish I could,” I whispered.
“I know it must be right—it is right,” she said in the same tone. “But I wish that I might know. Will you not tell me?”
“I will tell you some day,” I said brokenly. “Now it is another's, and I can not. But it shall all be yours.”
“All?”