And the young man perceived that she had tears in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” said he gently. “I shouldn’t have said what I have to you but that I wanted you to go back to your convent before you hear anything more to pain you. I want to take you to Presterby this afternoon, without your seeing my cousin Bob.”
“Ah!” cried Freda with a start. “Your cousin! Tell me, is he good to you? Are you fond of him?”
“Not particularly. That answer will do to both questions.”
“Then why do you stay here? Would it not be better for you to go away? They say—do they not say, that he makes you work for his advantage?”
He paused a few moments, and his face grew graver. Then he said abruptly: “Supposing I were to tell you that I am content to be taken advantage of, and that I’d rather live on here anyhow than like a prince anywhere else. I tell you,” he went on, with the ring of passion in his voice, “I love every foot of ground about here as you love your convent and your nuns; the stones of this old place are my religion. And so I shall live on here in some sort of hole-and-corner fashion, bringing grist to a mill that gives me neither honour nor profit, until——”
He stopped short. Freda was deeply moved; but she only asked him, in a constrained voice, if he would let her come down the ladder. He ran rapidly down, held the ladder firm for her, and gently assisted her as she came near the ground, taking her crutch and returning it to her when her feet touched the floor.
“Poor little lame girl!” said he softly, and the words brought sobs into her throat. “Why, you’re crying! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No-o, no,” said Freda, drawing herself away. “Let me go, please.”
“Well, say that we’re friends first.”