‘That is truly good of you,’ said he, softly. ‘Your shawl is not warm enough,’ he added, stopping, as she shivered a little, and he altered it and folded it more closely about her. As they stood there, his eyes looked into hers, and by the moonlight he saw that hers were full of fear, and that her face was white, and her expression one of pain.
‘I ought not to have brought you out,’ he said, regretfully.
‘No; I think I should like to go in again, please,’ said Nita.
‘You shall, now that I know how good you are,’ he answered, lifting up the hand that lay upon his arm, and stooping his beautiful head towards it, he touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. ‘What a long time it seems since we walked here this morning,’ he added, ‘does it not?’
‘A very long time,’ responded Nita, in a voice of exceeding weariness.
They entered the drawing-room again, and Wellfield, speaking to Mr. Bolton, said:
‘I am sure Miss Bolton ought not to sit up any longer. She has been more shaken than she will own by her accident this afternoon, and——’
‘Nita, say good-night, and go to bed,’ said her father, presenting her simultaneously with a candle and a kiss. ‘Here, shake hands with her, Mr. Wellfield. Good-night, child. Off with you.’
Nita, locked in her room, began her preparations for writing. She had inscribed the words: