“I don’t think you unkind, Miss Fox,” replied the minister as he accepted her proffered assistance. “The cruel thing is this that has been burning within like fire. If you only knew–––”
“Mr. McGowan,”––she interrupted kindly,––“I cannot tell you as to the height of esteem in which I hold you. Nothing can ever 209 harm that. But even if I cared for you as you ask of me, don’t you see how impossible it would be for me to go back on Father? I can’t help but think there must be some real reason for the attitude he has taken against you.”
“Do you honestly believe what you have just said?”
“Is there any reason why I should not believe it?”
“I suppose not,” he replied, heavy fatigue in his voice.
She saw from his averted face that her question had pained him. She wanted to speak, to soften her question, but no words came to her dry lips.
The way home was traveled in silence. They reached the pile of stones below her father’s place, and Elizabeth released her aching arm. In silence they watched the strangely mottled effect where the moonlight fell in patches across the water as the clouds flitted past. A patter of rain, accompanied by a sharp whistle of wind, warned them of coming storm.
“I’ll go up the path with you, and go home by the road,” volunteered the minister.
“No, indeed. It will be much easier walking for you along the beach, and you’ll not need to climb any hill. I’ll call to you from the back gate, and you’ll know I’m safe.” She turned toward him once more. “Harold came home to-day, and Father has been worse since that. Harold found out something about the man he went over to Australia to look up. He must have told Father about it to-day. Since then he has been in a terrible state of mind. It seems that Harold found out something about you, too.”