At last she spoke to me one day, as I was coming out of the vicarage.
She was just going to knock at the door; so I encountered her face to face on the step, without a chance of escape.
She held out her hand to me.
I took it mechanically, and then let it drop; raising my hat at the same time, without saying a word.
She addressed me with heightened colour and a wistful look in the deep, grey eyes.
“Why are you so angry with me, Frank?” she asked in her sweet, low voice, which had a slight tremble in it as she spoke. “What have I done to offend you? You never stop and speak to me now, never call at our house, and always pass me by with a cold frigid bow! Have I done anything to offend you, Frank?” she entreated again. “If so, tell me; and I will beg your pardon, for it must have been unintentional on my part?”
I was foolish, and proud, and conceited. I thought that I would not allow myself to be deceived twice.
I was bitter and rude. I made a mockery of all the friendly overtures which she made so lovingly with all the coy bashfulness of her maiden heart.
I could have strangled myself afterwards, when I thought it all over!
“I’m not aware, Miss Clyde,” said I, as stiffly as you please—just as if she were a stranger to me, and not the dear Min whom I knew and loved so well—“I am not aware that there is any necessity for your asking my forgiveness:—if you cannot suggest to yourself the reason for my altered manner, words on my part would be useless indeed!”