He started back perceptibly.
After a moment, he replied, still playfully, "I never said so."
"No, sir; but—but——"—she lowered her eyes; a coquette could not have done it more artlessly—"but I—know it."
The accusation of loving her set all his suppressed repugnances and prejudices bristling in contradiction. He cursed the weakness that had got him into this soul-racking situation. The silence clamoured for him to speak—to do something.
"What—what were you crying about before?" he said abruptly.
"I—I don't know, sir," she faltered.
"Was it Tom's death?"
"No, sir, not much. I did think of him blackberrying with me and our little Sally—but then he was so wicked! It must have been what missus said; and I was frightened because the vicar was coming to take me away—away from you; and then—oh, I don't know—I felt—I couldn't tell you—I felt I must cry and cry, like that night when——" She paused suddenly and looked away.
"When——" he said encouragingly.
"I must go—Rosie," she murmured, and took up the tea-tray.