"I am glad I have told you," she said.
Barnabas put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, in his face an anxiety he could not repress.
"Ye ha' told me all?"
"No. There is something else; I have lost the money you gave me, and——"
He interrupted impatiently. "Eh? that's no matter, and it was yours to do as you would with; I'd not ha' saved it for mysel'. There's naught else? I've thought times—happen, when someone came along wi' just all the ways I'm wanting in—book-larned, perhaps, and clever—so I've heard—and a gentleman. Doan't fancy that I'm not sartain ye would never listen to a word ye shouldn't fro' any—I am sure o' that—but meaning no blame to 'ee, Margaret—only seein' ye are still young, an'—an'——" He stammered in his eagerness, and Meg felt that his hands were shaking. It was extraordinary and amazing to her that Barnabas should care like that.
"I am not breaking my heart for anybody," she said rather indignantly; "for Mr. Sauls least of all. Every one is rather silly about him, I think—even Tom."
"An' what about Tom?" asked the preacher; and Meg, in some dismay, found herself let in for even greater revelations than she had intended.
Barnabas was more indignant on her behalf than she expected or wished.
He listened to the rather confused story in silence, except that he interrupted once to ask: "Why didn't ye tell me? Didn't ye know I'd ha' come fro' anywhere to take your part?"
"It's all past now, and Tom and I have made it up; and it does not matter any more," Meg wound up. She was anxious to forget that sore subject, which had been such a perplexity to her.