“We are perfectly well, thanks to you.”
“What started the horses?” asked Gabriel.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Hope.
“Abel Newt started them,” said Mrs. Simcoe.
Hope reddened and looked at her companion. “What do you mean, Aunty?” asked she, haughtily.
Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed. In a moment he saw that there had been no injury. Hope’s eyes met his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause.
“How strange it is,” said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the people busied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much easier than with Hope—“how strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this way, Miss Wayne!”
Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope listened to him.
“Where can I see you?” he continued; “certainly your grandfather was unkind—”
Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement—every look—every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning.