“Oh, aunt, aunt,” the poor girl sobbed. “Richard—Richard.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her cool soft hands upon the burning brow; “tell me, darling. You have no secrets from me.”
“I will—directly—aunt,” sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate grief, “He has been begging me to be his wife.”
“And is that so very dreadful, my child?” said Mrs Glaire.
“And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years—not till I could freely forgive him—he accused me, so dreadfully.”
“Indeed, child! what did he say?”
“Oh, I could not, cannot tell you,” sobbed Eve.
“Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird,” said Mrs Glaire, caressing her, “you can tell me all.”
“I will, aunt,” said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager, as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; “he accused me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood.”
“And have you, Eve?”