Don did not look up to meet his mother’s yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride.
“He thinks me guilty!” he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed.
“Kitty!”
“Coming, father.”
Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate.
Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange.
What should he do? Go right away, and—and—
“Mas’ Don.”
He looked up, and Jem stood at the door.