'Till the end of September, I think.'
'So long? I'm glad to hear that. You will come again some day to my house with your father, won't you?'
The words trembled upon his lips; it was not like his own voice, he could not control it.
'Thank you, Mr. Dagworthy,' she replied.
He bent to the books again, and this time succeeded in binding them together. As he fastened the buckle, drops of perspiration fell from his forehead.
Emily thanked him, and held forth her hand for the books. He took it in his own.
'Miss Hood—'
She drew her hand away, almost by force, and retreated a step; his face terrified her.
'I sent Jessie off on purpose,' he continued. 'I knew you were here, and wanted to speak to you alone. Since I met you that day on the Heath, I have had no rest—I've wanted so to see you again. The other morning at the Cartwrights' it was almost more than I could do to go away. I don't know what's come to me; I can't put you out of my thoughts for one minute; I can't give my attention to business, to anything. I meant to have gone away before now, but I've put it off, day after day; once or twice I've all but come to your house, to ask to see you—'
He spoke in a hurried, breathless way, almost with violence; passion was forcing the words from him, in spite of a shame which kept his face on fire. There was something boyish in the simplicity of his phrases; he seemed to be making a confession that was compelled by fear, and at length his speech lost itself in incoherence. He stood with his eyes fixed on the ground; perspiration covered his face.