“I was quite glad to see that little bit of enthusiasm in you; you used to be a very affectionate, warm-hearted child, and I thought it had all died out.”
I felt my face growing crimson. I tried not to speak, then the words burst forth—
“It has not died away; I can love still.”
“I make no doubt of that, my dear,” continued he, carelessly, “but you have not the same pleasant way of showing it.”
He dropped my hand and walked towards the house, but his indifferent words had renewed the feeling with which I had parted from Nan. He too might be indifferent, but at least he should know. I would tell him Nan’s words.
“Owen, I want to ask you a question.”
“Well!” turning round, and leaning his graceful figure against the porch.
“We are going to be rich again, before long?”
“Perhaps; I cannot say.”
“But you are getting up a lot of coal now out of the mine?”