“No—no—no—no! Moray, it is false as false can be. I have not seen or spoken to Captain Rolph for months.”
“But you did see and speak to him alone, little woman?” he said, looking paler and older and as if every word was a trouble to him to utter.
“Yes, dear, I did, for—for—Oh, Moray, I will—I will speak,” she sobbed, in a passionate burst of tears. “You are so big and kind and good, I will tell you everything.”
“Tell me, then,” he said, patting her head, as if she were his child. “You did love this man?”
“Moray!”
Only that word; but it was so full of scorn, contempt, and reproach also to the questioner, that it carried conviction with it, and, taking Lucy’s face between his hands, Alleyne bent down and kissed her tenderly.
“I am very glad, dear,” he said quietly, “more glad than I dare say to you; but tell me—you used to meet him frequently?”
“Yes, yes, Moray, I did—I did, dear. It was wicked and false of me. I ought not to have done what I did, but—but—oh, Moray—will you forgive me if I tell you all?”
He remained silent for a few moments, gazing sternly down into his sister’s eyes, and then said softly,—
“Yes, Lucy, I will forgive you anything that you have done.”