The girl looked up brightly and shyly as the long shadow that fell across the floor told her that he was near. Indeed, some subtle instinct would have told her of his near presence, even had there been no sunshine, no light, and the darkness of Erebus had shrouded the earth.
“I am making something you like, Mr. Moore,” she said, holding up a great dish of golden-brown crullers before him. “And mother has made an apple pie, and you are also to have Johnny-cake and honey.”
“You and your mother are very thoughtful, and very considerate of my likes—regarding the good things you are preparing—but I fear I will not be able to enjoy them for the reason that I am come to tell you that I am going to take the next train that leaves for New York, which will leave me scarcely more than time to get from here down to the depot in the village.”
Glancing carelessly enough from the mother to the daughter, he saw the laughter die from Lucy’s face, and the light from her eyes. She laid down the dish of golden-brown crullers on the table, still looking at him piteously, it almost seemed to him. He did not understand the expression of her face. It was as one who awaits a sentence of life or death.
“What is the matter, Lucy; are you ill?” cried Mrs. Caldwell in alarm, seeing how white her daughter’s face had grown, but before she could reach her side, Lucy had fallen in a dead swoon to the kitchen floor.
For an instant the young man standing in the doorway was dazed with amazement, but in the next he sprang forward to raise the girl.
“Do not go near my Lucy! Do not touch her!” cried the unhappy mother, distractedly. “This is all your work, sir—all your work!”
John Dinsmore drew back in much distress. Never by word, act or deed, had he given the girl encouragement to bestow her affections upon himself. He was touched deeply. He remembered his own hopeless love for Queenie Trevalyn, and could sympathize from the very bottom of his heart with any human being who loved in vain.
His eyes filled with tears; he who had been drawn on by dimpling smiles and coquettish glances until his whole heart had been drawn from his bosom, only to be ruthlessly cast aside when he acknowledged, while he pleaded for the heart of the girl he loved, that he had not wealth to offer her.
“You will at least allow me to carry her into the other room and place her on the settee for you?” he asked, gently, noting that the slender form, light as the burden was, would certainly be beyond the strength of the mother’s arms.