"It makes much difference to me," he answered; he put his hand on her soft hair and tried to press her head down again on his shoulder. But she drew away.
"No; no."
"But—" he began. She interrupted him.
"Listen," she said; and then, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes breaking into a sob, she told him the story of that November night. He could hardly hear it through.
"Love, you loved me! You will marry me."
"No; I am a wicked girl—a—a—an immodest girl—"
"My beloved, you meant no wrong—" He paused, seeing that she was not listening.
Her father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; William King, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads, had summoned Henry Roberts to "come along and give 'em your blessing!"
But as he reached them, standing now apart, the doctor's smile faded—evidently something had happened. John Fenn, tense with distress, called to him with frowning command: "Doctor! Tell her, for heaven's sake, tell her that it was nothing—that charm! Tell her she did no wrong."
"No one can do that," Henry Roberts said; "it was a sin."