But here only an oil-lamp flickered in the breeze; even Lizzie was away from her post, having gone before tea to walk to Wilgandra, in the urgent need of a little pleasant human intercourse, ere she began another grey week.
There was a door open near by, and glancing in Morty saw Miss Browne, seated at her cleared dressing-table so busily writing and so surrounded by little papers and letters he came to a vague conclusion that she was 'literary.'
'Miss Browne,' he called imploringly.
She laid down her pen and hastened to the door to him.
He seized both her hands, he pressed them, he wrung them as he stood, labouring with his excitement.
'Miss Browne,' he said, 'will you help me? You must help—oh, do not refuse—she has gone down the garden alone—I think she is leaning on the gate. I must go to her. I must go to her. Will you keep them back—all the others—could you get them in a room and turn the key—how can I tell her if they follow me like this?'
'Tell her—who—what—why?' said the astonished Miss Browne.
'I love her,' said the man; 'I love her with all my soul—I must tell her; you will help me?'
His face looked quite white; there was a moisture on his forehead, his eager voice shook.
Miss Browne was crying; she had taken one of his big hands and was stroking it.