“Why did you bring it then? Why have you brought me a dozen from the same person, all under cover to you?”
“Because—because I couldn’t help it—because I must do what you tell me, in spite of myself. Oh, Lilian, can you reproach me with what I do for you?”
“I am not reproaching you, you dear old, silly boy! I was thanking you, when you suddenly began to scold me. I trust you more than anybody else in the world; you know I do.”
“Then why don’t you trust me entirely, and tell me whom the letters are from? You know I would never betray you. You know that, whoever it was, I would do for you then all that I do now, and more—if that could be.”
“Why don’t you tear them open and see? They all pass through your hands.”
“I would if they were any one’s letters but yours. But your wishes are sacred to me—they are, indeed, and, if I were to do that, you would never speak to me again.”
“Well, to judge from the way you reproach me, that would be a very good thing.”
“No, Lilian, no, no! Be cruel to me as you like; but don’t talk of casting me aside like that. What more can I do for you than I have done? What——”
They heard his voice in passionate protest long after the words themselves were lost, as the sound of the crutches, following Lilian toward the house, grew fainter on the pathway. The interest Annie and William had taken in the mice was quite gone. They still stood opposite to each other in the deepening dusk; but for some minutes after the voices had become inaudible they could not find a word to say. At last William broke the silence.
“I say, Annie, what on earth do you think Lilian is up to?”