“I have come for advice and counsel,” said Huish firmly.
“You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite as I!” said the voice—“as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been dead to society and its ways?”
“Yes,” said Huish. “I come to you because you can help.”
“How much do you want, John Huish?” said the voice. “Give me the pen and ink.”
The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the fingers clutching as if to take the pen.
“No, no, no!” said the young man hastily. “It is not that. Let me tell you,” he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening—“let me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it—I am in love.”
There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went on:
“I come to you for help and advice.”
“What can I do to help? As for advice,” said the voice coldly, “I will do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?”
“Worthy?” cried Huish, flushing. “She is an angel.”