"It must be as you like, Mr. Tincroft."
John paused a second or two; then he said, still timidly—
"It is true, I am afraid, that your uncle and aunt are unkind to you in your distress?"
"It seems so to us, Mr. Tincroft," replied Sarah, with a little of her old spirit flashing from her eyes; "but I daresay they would tell you different; and, if you please, I would rather not hear or say anything about them."
"Well, well, I will not distress you unnecessarily. But, believe me," said John, kindly, "I have reason for asking. And will you mind telling me truly if—if you still have any—what shall I say?—any hope or expectation—you know what I mean?" went on poor Tincroft, scarcely knowing what he said, or how he said it.
"I don't know what you mean, sir," said Sarah, when John came to a sudden halt.
"You know," said he, changing his conversational position, "I took a journey down into the north, not so very long ago, in your interest, as I at the time firmly believed, Miss Wilson. I did this without asking your permission; but I hope my motive was not—has not been misinterpreted by you."
"I daresay you meant well, sir," said the young lady, coldly.
"But I did not do well. True, I candidly confess it; and I see now that the embassage was injured by the ambassador. At any rate, my journey proved worse than useless, as it then seemed. But possibly since then—I have reasons for asking, Miss Wilson—possibly since then your cousin Walter—"
"And if he had, sir," said Sarah, interpreting, as it seemed, what John was so methodically and carefully, but yet stumblingly, trying to enunciate; and, speaking with an energy and spirit with which he was inwardly pleased—"If he had, do you think I would have listened to him after—" Sarah's bosom heaved as she spoke, and her pent-up feelings found vent in tears. Presently, when calmed down, she resumed, "I am much obliged to you, Mr. Tincroft, for your good meanings; but Walter Wilson is nothing to me now, nor will he ever be."