"I can imagine that it is very dear," I said, conscious as I spoke of a curious, heartsick sensation of being left out in the cold. He had seemed so happy with us at "Gay Bowers." Had he all the while been yearning for Scotland?
"You will soon be leaving us then, I suppose?" was my next remark.
"Not until the autumn," he said. "You may be sure I shall be in no hurry to quit 'Gay Bowers.' I have been so happy there. It has been more of a home to me than any place since I lost my mother."
"But you like Edinburgh better?"
He laughed as he replied:
"Indeed, I do not. Edinburgh is dear to me for its beauty and its associations; but I never had a home there. I studied there for a while before I went to Cambridge."
After that we walked on for some moments in silence. There were so many things I had wanted to say to Alan Faulkner, yet, now I had the opportunity, I felt tongue-tied. I stole a glance at him, and he looked so grave that I began to wonder what he could be thinking about. Then I conceived the idea that I was boring him, and almost wished that Paulina would come back. But presently, he startled me by saying:
"Miss Nan, I have a confession to make, and I want to ask your forgiveness."
"My forgiveness?" I repeated.
"Yes, for I wronged you grievously in my thoughts that day when I presumed to warn you, forsooth, against the fascinations of Ralph Marshman."