He was watching her intently as he spoke, and he saw that not only did she turn pale, but a spasm as of pain crossed her face.
“Thou dost not look well, my pet,” he said, gently. “There, there, put the writing away, and come and sit by me while I have my pipe. I don’t like my little one to be so dull. Why, Sage, what’s come of all the songs? You used to be always singing and making the house cheery. I’m thinking you work too hard.”
“Oh, no, no, uncle,” she cried, forcing a smile.
“Then you think too much, child. You must have more change. Parson didn’t come in here, did he, my lass?”
“No, uncle,” she said, starting.
“No, I thought he wouldn’t; but he came to meet me, and he brought a message for thee, my girl.”
“For me, uncle?” she cried, crimsoning to the parting of her hair.
“Ay, he did. He says he has to be out a deal, and Mrs Mallow finds it lonesome at times without her girls; and he said, as a favour, would you mind going up and seeing her, and sitting with her and reading a bit?”
“Oh, no, uncle,” faltered Sage, crimsoning more deeply, every trace of emotion being duly noted by him who was probing her to the quick. “But would Mrs Mallow—?”
She paused without finishing her sentence.