Her breath stopped, her heart fluttered, her cheek crimsoned. She paused for the coming up of the footsteps, but she did not turn her head.
“I have the honor of speaking to Miss Elverton, I presume.”
The voice of the speaker was deep, rich, and inexpressibly mournful.
Alma started, turned round, and dropped her eyes, while a deep blush mantled her face.
The speaker was a tall, finely-formed, fair-complexioned, and very handsome man, of about forty years of age.
While addressing Alma he held his hat entirely off his head, and stood with a courtly grace that the girl had never seen equalled.
She was naturally surprised and even terrified at the unexpected apparition of a stranger in that lonely place and at that late hour, but aside from these natural emotions, there was something in the aspect of the man that thrilled her with a feeling which was neither surprise nor terror, but something infinitely deeper than either.
“I have the honor of addressing Miss Elverton, I presume?” repeated the stranger, with the same gracious courtesy of tone and manner.
“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl, with her heart throbbing quickly.
“Miss Elverton, does your mother still live?” inquired the deep voice of the stranger.