"I suppose I have offended past forgiveness. I did not mean to tell you this to-night," he said.
Grace looked up for a moment. "Oh," she said softly, "I think I knew—and you see I am not blaming you."
Ingleby quivered visibly, and his face grew hot; but while the desire to kneel beside her and seize the clasped hands was almost irresistible, he stood still, looking gravely down upon her, which was, perhaps, not wise of him.
"You knew?" he said.
"Is that so difficult to understand, after what happened at Alison's Sault?"
Ingleby bent down and took one of her hands, but he did it very gently, though the signs of the fierce restraint he laid upon himself were in his face.
"I should never have told you, Grace—I lost my head," he said. "Still, the one hope that has led me so far, and will, I think, lead me farther, has been that I might—one day when the time was ripe—induce you to listen, and not send me away. Now it must be sufficient that you are not angry. I can take no promise from you."
"Is it worth so little?" Grace said softly.
Ingleby's grasp tightened on her hand until it grew almost painful. "It would," he said, "be worth everything to me, but I dare not take it now. What I am, you know—but the claim is yielding well—and I only want a little time. Until I can ask Major Coulthurst for you boldly you must be free."
Grace looked up at him. "And you?"