Olivia stopped too, and holding back her umbrella, met his glance with a frank, straight gaze. He raised his hat, seemed about to speak to her, but hesitated. She smiled and held out her hand. He saw at once that this was not the ordinary greeting of an acquaintance she was tendering him. The muscles about her mouth were quivering, and her eyes, as they met his for a moment before dropping modestly, were luminous with generous feeling, maidenly shame struggling with womanly sympathy. Mr. Brander took her hand with some constraint. As he touched it, however, something in the firm clasp of the girl’s fingers gave him confidence.
“Miss Denison,” he said, gravely, while his keen black eyes seemed to read the thoughts in her brain before they were uttered, “you have been in the churchyard. Where were you?”
The blood, which was already crimson in Olivia’s cheeks, mounted to her forehead, until her whole face was aglow. Her eyes fell, and it was in a low, almost faltering, voice that she answered.
“I was in the ruined part of the church—where the roof is left.”
Mr. Brander was startled by this confession. He did not at once speak, being evidently occupied in trying to recall the very words of the conversation she must have overheard. But he soon gave up that attempt, and asked, impatiently—
“Then you heard—what?”
Olivia’s breath come almost in sobs, as she answered at once, with bent head, and almost in a whisper—
“I heard nearly all you said—you and the man. I am very, very sorry and ashamed, and I ask your pardon. But I did not dare to come out while you were there. I hoped to get away without your seeing me.”
“But what did I say? What did he say? What did you understand by it all?” asked he, so eagerly that he almost seemed to be bullying her.
“Oh, I don’t know. Pray don’t ask me. I don’t want to remember. I would rather forget it all. I never meant that a word about it should pass my lips, and it will not after this,” said she, hurriedly without looking up.