“I will come with you a little way,” she said in a tremulous voice. “You are a sweet, dear girl, and I love you for your goodness. But you must let me go to the station, and get away.”
Mabin paused before trying her final shot.
“You must come, dear,” she whispered, “because there is some one who wants to see you; some one who is not strong enough to come after you himself.”
At these words Mrs. Dale, who had begun to walk slowly up the hill, leaning on Mabin’s arm, stopped short and began to tremble violently.
“Who—is—that?” she asked hoarsely, with apparent effort, keeping her eyes fixed on those of her companion with such searching intentness that the young girl was alarmed.
“Mr. Banks,” whispered the girl. “And listen, dear. He only wants to see you just once; he said so. And he is ill, you know, so I think you ought. And since he has loved you all this time——”
Mabin stopped short. For as she uttered these words a cry escaped from Mrs. Dale’s lips, a cry so full of poignant feeling, so plaintive, so touching, that it was evident she was moved to the inmost depths of her nature.
Clinging to Mabin with trembling fingers, gazing into her eyes with her own full of tears, she said in a low, broken voice:
“He said that? He—really—said—that?”
“Why, yes, he did,” answered the girl, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that the admission had escaped her.