The two passed on until beyond her hearing, and Legare said, in a low tone:
“I thank you, Mr. W——, and need look no farther. I do not wonder that such beauty, combined with education and talent, struck my father with surprise. Who can she be? She was not born to labor; her hands are small, her fingers tapering and delicate—every feature that of a lady. I had but a single glance, but if I was only an artist I could paint her portrait from memory.”
Mr. W—— smiled.
“You also are enthusiastic as well as your father. But I assure you that neither you nor he need feel any fear, or dream of any snares being laid for either of you. It is true, the young girl is beautiful—but she is poor, and dependent on the labor of her hands for her living. She has evidently no ambitions beyond it, for here at her bench for over two years she has been a silent, quiet, unobtrusive worker, making no complaints, asking no favors, shunning all acquaintances—noted only for her modesty and retiring, quiet way.”
“She is a wonder,” said Mr. Legare, with a sigh. “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. W——.”
Then he left the bindery without another word.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHAT CAN THIS MEAN?
Mr. W—— echoed the sigh which left his visitor’s lips when the latter departed. And the wealthy binder looked toward the screens which hid fair Hattie Butler from general view—looked longingly in that direction, as if there was a wish in his heart he hardly dared to utter—perhaps a wish that she was not his employee, but a member of the circle in which his own pretty and fashionable sisters moved.
He looked around to note that every one was busy, even his foreman attending in person to a difficult job of gilding on Turkey morocco.
Then he moved very quietly toward the little screened-off space where our heroine was at work, and approached her so silently that not until he spoke was she aware of his close vicinity.