She was silent, walking serenely by his side.
"No, not altogether," he continued, determining suddenly on his course. "The fact is, I was walking by your place, and a servant who was just coming out told me you were in church, and then I went in. I suppose I ought not to have done it," he added with a little laugh; "I am very sorry I disturbed you. Pray forgive me."
"Not at all,—churches are free for every one. But why do you laugh?"
"At my own stupidity," he answered. "I might have known that when you go to church at odd times you go to be alone, and not to have wandering callers sent there after you."
"What makes you think that?" she asked, curious to know how much he had noticed. She argued that if he had heard her crying he would think the question natural, whereas, if he had not, he would not suspect anything from it.
"Because you acted as though you thought you were alone," he said seriously.
"I did think so," she said, blushing faintly. "Do you know? I was quite startled when I saw you there."
"I saw you were," he answered, still very gravely, "and I am very sorry."
"Do you remember what I said to you at Castellamare, Mr. Batiscombe?"
"Yes; you said that life was not all roses, and you said it in earnest."