later. Why, Leslie Gilroy, you are quite glaring at me; your eyes have got the queerest expression.”
“Never mind about my eyes,” replied Leslie. “I have something to say.” Her quiet was over; she knew that the time for action had come.
“Annie Colchester,” she said, “I know where you are going. You have got a chance, one chance; will you take it?”
“You know where I am going, and I have got a chance—what do you mean? How very queer you look!”
“I will tell you in a few words exactly what I mean. I know everything. There is time yet. Annie, Annie, you cannot mean really to ruin me. I have always been kind to you—that is, I have tried to be kind. You cannot mean quite to ruin me, Annie.”
“To ruin you—to ruin you, Leslie? No; I don’t mean to ruin you.”
It was now Annie’s turn to look pale; her eyes, startled and alarmed, glanced from Leslie to the ground.
“At any rate, don’t keep me now,” she said, a shiver passing through her frame. “When I come back I will talk with you as long as you like; but I am in a great hurry. We can talk over—over what you mean (I am sure I cannot imagine what it can be) when I come back.”
“We must talk now,” cried Leslie; “it will be too late when you come back. Annie, I have something to confess to you; and you—God knows you have something terrible to confess to me; but my confession comes first. I followed you the night before last. After the meeting at East Hall I came back to our room and found you absent. I was restless and miserable about you, and I
went out to look for you. I was standing near the boat-house when you landed with—with——”