Priscilla did not know what reply to make to this, so she made none. After a pause Mr. Winter looked at her again.
“You look pale and tired,” he said, trying still to speak coldly, but not succeeding very well. “You don’t look as strong as that mischievous sister of yours.”
“I have been ill,” said Priscilla, and she told him of the accident with the swing, and throwing back her cloak to show him her arm still in its sling, she saw, and for the first time remembered, her hat. For a moment a hot blush dyed her face, and then she burst into a hearty peal of laughter. At the sound of it Mr. Winter started, then grew even paler than he had been. No sound of childish laughter had been heard in that place since the day his boy left him to start on his fatal expedition.
“I meant to have put it on,” she explained, “before I reached your gate; I thought it was more—more right to have on a hat when one paid a call. I only put on my cloak because I was afraid my dress would show as I came up the cliff, and I was afraid some one would see me and stop me.”
Mr. Winter had recovered himself by this time, and seeing that she could but badly manage with one hand to slip back the hood and put on her hat, he actually helped her. At the touch of the soft curls, at the frank, grateful glance of the childish eyes, a new sense of life and happiness ran through his chilled veins, a new peace came to the heart that had for so long waged a bitter, resentful war against God, himself, and his fellow-creatures.
When the hat was satisfactorily adjusted, a sudden silence fell upon them; his mind and heart were teeming with thoughts and sensations that to Priscilla would have been incomprehensible. Priscilla was wondering what she could say and do next. He had not said he would forgive Loveday, and she did not like to leave without his promise, and oh! she was feeling so tired she did not know how to begin her pleading again. She must, though. She felt that; and then she would go away, and when she got out of sight she would rest a little before she went all down that steep path again.
“Mr. Winter—you haven’t said yet, but will you forgive Loveday, please?” she asked, suddenly growing shy and nervous again. But it was the weariness, the weakness of her voice that struck her hearer most. He looked sharply at her, and her pale, wan little face sent a pang to his heart, a pang he could not understand.
“Yes, of course, child, of course,” he said hastily. “I am not an ogre. I was only pretending to be, to frighten the two young scamps a little. I did not intend to punish them any further. You may run home and tell your sister what I say. But,” he added abruptly, “you are not fit to walk all the way back; you have walked too far already, and I have kept you standing all this time. Come in and rest for a few minutes, and have a glass of milk. You will get home in half the time after it.”
But Priscilla hesitated. She was shy of penetrating that gloomy house, with only this stranger, of whom she still felt some awe, and that dreadful woman, whom she frankly disliked.
“You would rather not,” he said, quick to notice her hesitation; “don’t be afraid to speak out, child. I quite understand.”