The child burst into a passion of tears in which she tried to restrain herself in a curious, unchildlike fashion, finally slipping off the seat and sitting at his feet with her head buried in the robe.
When he arrived at the Pavilion he tried to persuade her to come out, but by various unmistakable signs she gave him to understand that she would not leave him to go back to Stargarde.
His face twitched with a variety of emotions. He requested Stargarde to come to the door of her rooms, for the cripples were at tea and he would not go in. “I have Zeb,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll take her—the mother consents; they’ll sign a contract. Child’s in my sleigh, and I can’t get her out.”
Stargarde clasped her hands; a lovely, rosy flush glorified her face. “Oh, I am so glad! Thank the Lord for that.”
“House will be cold and Hannah’ll be mad,” he said; “but I’ve got to take her.”
“Zeb won’t mind,” said Stargarde joyfully, “if she’s with you; you don’t know her faithful heart.”
“What is Mrs. Trotley’s address?” he asked.
She gave it to him, he looking at her the meanwhile in inexpressible tenderness. “Stargarde,” softly, “I’ll not come here so much. Don’t want to bother you. You know what brings me.”
“Yes, yes,” she said hanging her head. “Dear Brian, it grieves me to grieve you.”
“I know it,” hastily. “But don’t grieve even for me, my darling. I would like your life to have no care. But if trouble does come upon you, you’ll send for me?”