“What do you mean?” said Evan, thinking more of the unmusical laugh than of the words.
He received no explanation, and the irksome silence caused him to look through the window, as an escape for his mind, at least. The waters streamed on endlessly into the golden arms awaiting them. The low moon burnt through the foliage. In the distance, over a reach of the flood, one tall aspen shook against the lighted sky.
“Are you in pain?” Miss Bonner asked, and broke his reverie.
“No; I am going away, and perhaps I sigh involuntarily.”
“You like these grounds?”
“I have never been so happy in any place.”
“With those cruel young men about you?”
Evan now laughed. “We don’t call young men cruel, Miss Bonner.”
“But were they not? To take advantage of what Rose told them—it was base!”
She had said more than she intended, possibly, for she coloured under his inquiring look, and added: “I wish I could say the same as you of Beckley. Do you know, I am called Rose’s thorn?”