“No, no, my dear; you can’t think how much I think about you.”
The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.
Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen, and tried in vain.
Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand, she answered the door.
“You, Mr Wimble!” she said, starting, and feeling a little confused. “So bold of him to come and call,” she thought.
“Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly.”
“Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I—I am not quite well.”
“Yes; to-night.”
“But Mr Lisle is at home.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, with a dark look in his eyes; and—fluttered and trembling before the strange, stern manner of her visitor—she drew back, allowed him to enter, closed the door, and led the way to the snug back room—half kitchen, half parlour—and then looked at him wonderingly, her heart fluttering more and more as she saw his wild look, and that he carefully closed the door.