“But so do I!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean so much more than that—I always have, from the very beginning—”
“Please don’t!” cried Katharine, anxiously, for she saw that he meant to speak at once—but it was too late.
“From the very beginning, since almost the first time I ever saw you—oh, my—my dear Miss Lauderdale—won’t you let me say it at last?”
“No—no—please—”
“If you only knew how hard I’ve tried—not to say it before,” he blurted out, as the blood rose warm in his brown cheeks.
CHAPTER VII.
Katharine turned her eyes from him and looked thoughtfully at the hearth-rug. A little silence followed Wingfield’s last speech, as he sat gazing at her and hoping for a word of encouragement. But none came, and by slow degrees the eager expression faded from his face and left it anxious and pained.
“Miss Lauderdale—” he began, in an altered tone, and then stopped suddenly. “Miss—Katharine—” he began again, more softly, and still hesitated.
She looked up, and though her eyes were turned towards him, he fancied they did not see him. She was pale, and her lips were a little drawn together, and there was an incongruity between her attempt to smile and the weary tension of the brows. Everything in her face told that she pitied him with all her heart.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, with real sympathy. “It’s been a mistake from the beginning—a great mistake.”