“Is that meant for a reproach, Drusilla?” he asked, coldly, as he dropped into a chair.
“Oh, no, Alick! no dear, no! but I can not—can not help it!”
And she cried harder than ever.
“Well, this is a pretty way to meet a man, upon my word, after he has taken a long cold ride to see you,” said Mr. Lyon, angrily.
“I didn’t mean it, Alick! Indeed I didn’t, dear! I tried hard to help it; but I couldn’t. I broke down,” she cried, sobbing heavily between her words.
“Humph, this is pleasant, upon my soul,” he said, grimly, watching her without making one attempt to soothe her.
“I know—I know how bad it is in me to do so, Alick dear, and I’m trying to stop it; indeed I am. Bear with me a little, dear; I will stop soon, indeed I will,” she sobbed.
“I hope it will be very soon. This looks very much as if you were accusing me of misusing you, Drusilla; do you mean to say that I do?”
“Oh, no, no, no, Alick! I never even thought so! You are very good to me. It is not your fault, dear; it is mine. I don’t know what ails me that I cry so much at such little things. I feel like a baby that wants its mother’s lap,” she said, with a still heaving bosom.
“That is very childish, Drusilla,” he answered, in a harsh, unsympathizing manner.