But Lilias was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the unwonted honour; and, strange to say, the slight was not resented. Placing the glass in Lilias’s hand, Mrs Stirling went into the house again.
As Lilias raised it to her lips, her eyes fell again upon the approaching stranger toiling along the dusty road, and her hand was arrested. He had again slackened his pace, and his face was turned full upon Lilias as he drew near. Upon it care or grief, or it might be crime, had left deep traces. Now it wore a wild and anxious look that startled Lilias, as, instead of passing along the high-road, he rapidly came up the garden-path towards her.
“Can you tell me if I am on the high-road to Kirklands?” he asked, as he drew near.
“Yes; go straight on. It is not much more than a mile from this place.”
He did not turn to go when she had answered him, but gazed for a moment earnestly into her face, and then said:
“Perhaps you can tell me— But no: I will not ask. I shall know the worst soon enough.”
The look of pain deepened in his face, and his very lips grew pale as he spoke.
“You are ill!” exclaimed Lilias, eagerly offering him the water she held in her hand. He drank a little, and, giving back the glass, thanked her and went away. But before he had gone far he turned again, and, coming to Lilias, said in a low, hoarse voice:
“Child, I see the look of heaven’s peace on your face. Your wish must bring good to one like me. Bid me God-speed.”
“God speed you!” said Lilias, reverently, and wondering much. “And God avert the evil that you dread!”