“That is its nature, and it cannot help being shy. I kneel down and look up without touching it; then one sees that it has nothing to hide,” protested Gladys, following out the flower fancy, half in earnest, half in jest, for she felt there was a question and a reproach in his words.
“Perhaps not; let us see, in my way.” With a light touch Helwyze turned the reluctant cyclamen upward, and in its purple cup there clung a newly fallen drop, like a secret tear.
Mute and stricken, Gladys looked at the little symbol of herself, owning, with a throb of pain, that if in nothing else, they were alike in that.
Helwyze stood silent likewise, inhaling the faint fragrance while he softly ruffled the curled petals as if searching for another tear. Suddenly Gladys spoke out with the directness which always gave him a keen pleasure, asking, as she stretched her hand involuntarily to shield the more helpless flower,—
“Sir, why do you wish to read my heart?”
“To comfort it.”
“Do I need comfort, then?”
“Do you not?”
“If I have a sorrow, God only can console me, and He only need know it. To you it should be sacred. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful; but you cannot help me, if you would.”
“Do you doubt my will?”