She stood gazing wonderingly after him, he seemed so strange in his way, as, after straining her to his breast, he kissed her passionately again and again, and then turned and literally ran from the room, while, as she placed her hand against her face, she found that it was wet.
“Poor Fred,” she said, “if I could only win him from his ways.”
She said no more, for her thoughts were only too ready to turn to their usual theme—her father and his imprisonment, and she sat down to rest her aching head upon her hand, wondering what had passed during the interview within the prison walls.
Fred Denville found Mr and Mrs Barclay below, and in a quick, agitated way he caught Mrs Barclay’s hand.
“It’s very kind of you to let me call upon my sister,” he said, “seeing what I am. I thank you. I am not coming again.”
“Not coming again? Oh, I’m sure you’re welcome enough, Mr Fred, for your sister’s sake,” said Mrs Barclay, “isn’t he, Jo-si-ah?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Thank you—both of you,” cried Fred hastily. “You are very good, and that’s why I say be kind to my poor sisters, and try and comfort both if anything happens.”
“Oh, but we must not let anything happen,” said Barclay. “The poor old gentleman must be saved.”
“Yes, of course,” said Fred dreamily; “he must be saved. He’s innocent enough, poor old fellow. I did not mean that. You’ll take care of the poor girls, won’t you?”