“Hush, no more of that. Take those damp things from the room and hang them before one of the spare fires, Marcy.”
And when the woman had gone, Miss Lyon walked up to the poor wanderer and laid her hand tenderly on her shoulder.
The little pale face turned itself around to hers. The soft pleading eyes were raised:
“Yes, Miss Lyon, that is well. Send all your women from the room, for I must speak with you alone,” she murmured, in a voice vibrating with suppressed anguish.
“Speak to me, then, my child; and speak freely. No mother could listen to your story with more sympathy than I shall,” said the heiress, drawing a chair to the fire and sitting down near the girl.
“You are not yet married? the ceremony has not yet been performed?” the wanderer inquired, looking wistfully at the bride.
“No, certainly not, or I should not be here; we are waiting for the minister. Did you want to see the pageantry, my child? If so, you can do so,” said the bride elect, smiling, as if to encourage her desponding protegée.
“I want to see it! No, Miss Lyon, I came here to-night to put a stop to it,” exclaimed the girl.
“To put a stop to it! Drusilla, are you mad, my dear?” said Miss Lyon, in amazement.
“I wish I was! I should have no duties to do then! Oh, Miss Lyon!”