"I could not talk to Tardif about his mother," she answered. "Besides, it would not have been too much if I had only had plenty. But it has made me so anxious. I did not know whatever I should do when it was all gone. I do not know now."
Here was a capital opening for a question about her friends.
"You will be compelled to communicate with your family," I said. "You have told me how poor you are; cannot you trust me about your friends?"
"I have no friends," she answered, sorrowfully. "If I had any, do you suppose I should be here?"
"I am one," I said, "and Tardif is another."
"Ah, new friends," she replied; "but I mean real old friends who have known you all your life, like your mother, Dr. Martin, or your cousin Julia. I want somebody to go to who knows all about me, and say to them, after telling them every thing, keeping nothing back at all, 'Have I done right? What else ought I to have done?' No new friend could answer questions like those."
Was there any reason I could bring forward to increase her confidence in me? I thought there was, and her friendlessness and helplessness touched me to the core of my heart. Yet it was with an indefinable reluctance that I brought forward my argument.
"Miss Ollivier," I said, "I have no claim of old acquaintance or friendship, yet it is possible I might answer those questions, if you could prevail upon yourself to tell me the circumstances of your former life. In a few weeks I shall be in a position to show you more friendship than I can do now. I shall have a home of my own, and a wife who will be your friend more fittingly, perhaps, than myself."
"I knew it," she answered, half shyly. "Tardif told me you were going to marry your cousin Julia."
Just then we heard the fold-yard gate swing to behind some one who was coming to the house.