“Mamma isn’t well,” said the child. “She has been crying so.”
“Hush! hush! my darling!” said Bayle softly. “You should not whisper secrets.”
“Is that a secret, Mr Bayle?”
“Yes; mamma’s secret, and my Julia must be mamma’s well-trusted little girl.”
“Please, Mr Bayle, I’m so sorry, and I won’t do so any more. Are you cross with me?”
“My darling!” he cried passionately, “as if any one could be cross with you! There, get your books ready, and I’ll soon be back.”
“No, no, not this morning, Mr Bayle; not books. Take me for a walk, and teach me about the flowers.”
“After lessons, then. There, run away.”
Hallam rose from his chair, with his lips drawn slightly from his teeth, as he heard Bayle’s retiring steps. Then the front door was banged loudly; he heard his child clap her hands, and then the quick fall of her feet as she skipped across the hall, and bounded up the stairs.
He took a few strides up and down the room, but stopped short as the door opened again, and, handsomer than ever, but with a graver, more womanly beauty, heightened by a pensive, troubled look in her eyes and about the corners of her mouth, Millicent Hallam glided in.