Young Bonyton shuddered.
“You fear nothing, I know, Hope, but I could not see you drown.”
“Drown!” returned the other, twanging her bow till it fairly yelled; “do you not know I would rather drown ten times, than be brought out of the water in your arms? You know I would, John Bonyton.”
“I could not see you drown, Hope,” he reiterated, with more of softness in his look and tone.
“Suppose I chose to drown, John Bonyton, what right had you to interfere?”
“Hope—dear Hope, I know you did.”
“Well, and what if I did? Do you think I will be pulled out like a fish, and be laid upon the bank to open and shut my mouth for lack of breath, and you looking on? I tell you, John Bonyton, I hate you.”
The youth smiled—a manly, deferential smile, and whispered a word in her ear. Suddenly she started, gave one wild, earnest look into his face—then stepped aside. The blood rushed like a torrent to her face, and she fled homeward with the speed of a startled fawn.
At this moment the quick ear of young Bonyton detected the sound of footsteps, and he pressed forward to encounter his father and Sir Richard Vines. The whole truth flashed upon his mind.