‘From Flanders? Ah, sir, ’tis welcome thrice over you are!’ she cried; ‘an’ are you bringing me news of my dear man?’ Her face was radiant; she smiled, and the beautiful dimples in her cheek were revealed, and her white even teeth. Her very eyes seemed to smile.
The young man began to speak again—with unaccountable stumblings and hesitations, still reading Anne’s face with his quick bright eyes as he spoke.
‘I am come—Sebastian Shepley,’ he said, and paused.
At the sight of his perturbation Anne came quickly towards him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
‘Sir, sir,’ she cried. ‘Don’t tell me as there is aught amiss with my Sebastian.’
‘Anne, I am come from your old lover Shepley, as you surmise,’ began the young man again; ‘he—he is well in health.’
The colour which had left Anne’s face rushed back to it in a beautiful scarlet tide.
‘Lord! sir, Sebastian’s not old, begging your pardon, sir,’ she said, letting her hand fall from his shoulder, rather ashamed of her sudden familiarity.
‘I—’twas not that way I meant it, Anne; I scarce know,’ stammered the young man. ‘Come, sit down by me and I shall tell you all.’
Anne, however, would not have felt easy sitting down in the presence of this fine stranger in lace ruffles. She stood opposite him and still looked anxious in spite of his assurances.