"There, there, you have had bad luck over your whist."
Lottie, however, knew what was the matter, and she gave him a shy, grateful look. But the old man was still more incensed when he saw that there were tears in her eyes, and he shuffled away, muttering something that sounded a little profane.
Lottie, soon after, left the room also, but as she was passing through the hall she met Hemstead, who had come in at a side door. He took her hand in both of his, and said, gently, "I do forgive you, fully and completely, and I have your forgiveness to ask for my hasty judgment."
"And will you be my friend again?" she asked, timidly, and in a way that taxed his resolution sorely.
"You have no truer friend," he said, after a moment.
"I think it was a little cruel, in so true a friend, to leave me all this desperately long evening."
"You are mistaken," he said, abruptly, and passed hastily up to his room. She did not see him again that night.
What could he mean? Had he recognized her love, and, not being able to return it fully, did he thus avoid her and hasten through his visit? The bare thought crimsoned her cheek. But she felt that this could not be true. She knew he had loved her, and he could not have changed so soon. It was more probable that he believed her to be totally unfit to share in his sacred work,—that he feared she would be a hindrance,—and, therefore, he was shunning, and seeking to escape from one who might dim the lustre of his spiritual life and work. In some respects she had grown very humble of late, and feared that he might be correct, and that she was indeed utterly unfit to share in his high calling.
"But if he only knew how hard I would try!" she said, with a touch of pathos in her tone which would have settled matters if he had heard it.
That he was sacrificing himself rather than ask her to share in his life's privation, did not occur to her.