"You will not confide in me?" he pleaded, his whole heart's love unconsciously vibrating in his voice.
The touch of his hand and his compassionate voice filled her with an eagerness that frightened.
She longed to lay bare her heart,—to seek solace from this man who had awakened the only real love her heart had known. Why couldn't she have this consolation at least? He would never know that she loved him. She would always be true to Howard—George would despise her if she were not.
George's eyes were asking her to answer—asking her to confide in his great heart. She felt their power. She drank in their intense sympathy—then suddenly she grew deadly pale. She shrank away from him like a frightened child.
"Edith, what have I done? Speak! Surely you cannot fear me?" he asked gently.
Afraid of him? No! But she dared not tell him she feared her own poor, weak self.
"Don't, George, O don't!" she said pitifully. "Ask me nothing. I am not strong, that is all. I ought not to have come. Let us get home quickly. Alma may become alarmed."
He drew away and contemplated her with surprise and concern.
"Poor child! Whatever troubles you, let it be your own sorrow then, dear girl. I never wished to worry you about it, Edith."
"O, I knew you did not," she replied miserably.