“And pray why not, sir?”
“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”
“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”
“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”
There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.
“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”
“No; but I feel sure he does.”
“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”
“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”
“Oh!”