Frank came forward hastily, everything blotted from his mind but the sight of her white, grief-stricken face. He took both her hands in his warm clasp.
The girl gave him a long, searching scrutiny, then her lips quivered, and with a smothered sob she flung herself into his arms and hid her face on his shoulder.
Frank held her tenderly. "Don't," he whispered unsteadily—"don't cry, dear."
In her sorrow, she was inexpressibly sweet and precious to him.
He bent down and smoothed with gentle fingers the soft, dusky hair. The fragrance of it filled his nostrils. Its softness sent a delicious ecstasy thrilling from his finger-tips up his arm. All his life he would remember this one moment. He gazed down at her tenderly, a wonderful light in his young face.
"Dear!" he whispered again.
She lifted a pallid face to him. Her violet eyes were misty, and tiny drops of dew were still tangled in her lashes.
"You—you are good to me," she murmured.
At his answering look, a faint colour swept into her cheeks. She gently disengaged herself and sat down.
Lady Dinsmore came forward, and seating herself beside the girl upon the divan, drew her close within the shelter of her arms.