“What, indeed?” repeated Catherine, very meekly.
But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of rich womanhood.
“Why, the kindest thought he can have of you, will be to think you are a fool—that is all.”
“Carl, I was in fear of him.”
“In fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor—and one to whom even I, cautious as I am, could trust you with, to go from one end of the world to the other!”
“I know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to lift my eyes—”
“But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! why are you afraid of him?”
Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick, short manner which was peculiar to her, and turned away—repeating in her own heart the question—“Yes, why, why, WHY?”
Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or not, remained a secret to Carl; this was the first and last conversation they ever held on the subject; and whatever phenomena the opening heart of the maiden revealed to herself, were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all.