“Go on with what you were saying,” said Mr. Banks sharply. “An old lady came here, scolded her——”
“And poor Mrs. Dale was miserable. She did not want me to stay with her; she said she was too wicked; she was more miserable than I have ever seen any one before. I am so sorry for her; so sorry.”
She stopped. A strange expression, in which there was a gleam of wistful hope, had come into Mr. Banks’ face. Mabin put out her hand quickly:
“Good-by,” she said. “I think I am glad I came. I’m sure you are not hard-hearted enough to make her any more unhappy than she is.”
But Mr. Banks, taking her hand, would not let it go, but walked with her to the door.
“You will let me come with you—as far as the gate of the garden,” he said quite humbly. “You are right to trust me. I love your ‘Mrs. Dale,’ and would not do her any harm. But—it is difficult, very difficult, to know what would be best, happiest, for her.”
They were in the hall by this time; and Mr. Banks, still holding the girl’s hand very gently in his, had pushed open the door which led into the garden. Instead of going out at once, he turned to look earnestly in Mabin’s young fair face.
“I wish you were a little older,” he said at last; “then I could tell you the whole story, and you could help me to find out the right thing to do.”
“I am nineteen,” expostulated Mabin; “and, though he doesn’t know it, papa often takes my advice.”
Mr. Banks smiled kindly.