She stopped suddenly enough; for Roger, coming through the fields with the milk, heard this piteous sobbing, and setting down his cans, parted the branches of the apple tree, saying in his kindest voice: "Why, my Kitty, my Pretty, what is the matter with you? who hurt my little—I—I beg your pardon, Miss Grahame!"
Hildegarde felt the hand of fate very heavy on her, but was quite helpless, and sobbed harder than ever.
What was a poor professor to do? Fortunately, Roger had plenty of sisters, and knew that a girl did not kill herself when she cried. After a moment's thought, in which he reminded himself severely that he was getting to be an old fellow, and might be this child's uncle, he came under the tree and sat down on the grass.
"Can you tell me what troubles you?" he asked, still in the gentle voice that was rather specially Kitty's privilege. "You have had no bad news?"
Hilda shook her head.
"Perhaps if you were to tell me what the trouble is, I could help you; or would you rather I would go away and not bother you?"
No! Hildegarde, to her own amazement, would rather he stayed. Whereupon, Roger, drawing from his experience of girls, perceived that there was nothing to do but sit and wait till the storm had spent itself. So he picked the apples within his reach, and reflected on the feminine character.
Presently a small and shaken voice said from under the handkerchief, "I—am so sorry—you got wet, Captain Roger!"
"Got wet?" said Roger, vaguely. He was generally more or less wet, being an amphibious creature, and did not for the moment grasp Hildegarde's meaning.
"I ran—the—boat aground, and you jumped overboard, and got—all wet!" and Hildegarde sobbed afresh.