“I think, as Mr Trevithick cannot come here now, you have a perfect right to go and see him.”
“Mr Trevithick!” cried Mary, with her face aflame; “why do you say that? I did not speak of going to see Mr Trevithick.”
“No, Miss Mary—no, my dear; but do you think I did not know. And I’m very, very glad.”
Mary was looking at her with flashing eyes, but the flames were put out by her tears, and she caught and pressed Sarah’s hand.
“You don’t seem like a servant to us,” she whispered quickly. “Come with me, please.”
Five minutes later they were on their way down the slope to the beach, with Mary trembling at what she thought was her daring behaviour; and as she walked on everybody she passed seemed to know where she was going, and to crown her confusion, just as they were nearing Mrs Sarson’s, Chris Lisle came out, nodded to her, changing colour a little, and was about to pass her, but he stopped short.
It was the first time they had met for months.
“Will you shake hands, Mary?” he said, raising his own hesitatingly.
“You know I will,” she cried eagerly, as she placed hers in his, glad of the relief from her thoughts.
“I am very, very glad to speak to you again, dear,” he said, in a subdued way. “You look so well, too, with that colour. There, I will not keep you. Perhaps some day we may meet again, and be able to have a friendly chat. Good-bye!”