"I am not angry, Dot," he said, letting his arms drop from their clasping; "I am only—hurt." And he slowly resumed his place upon the window-seat.
"I don't wish to hurt you, Hugh," Dorothy declared, as she sat down by him again.
He seemed to make an effort to smile, as he asked, "Don't you?"
"No, I do not." And now her voice began to gather a little asperity. "But you do not seem to consider that you said aught to hurt me, as well."
He took her hand and stroked it gently.
"You know well, Dot," he said, "that I'd not hurt you by word or deed. And it is only when I think you are doing what is like to hurt yourself, that I make bold to speak as I did just now."
Dorothy was silent, but her brain was busy. The thought had come to her that she must bind him by some means,—make it certain that he should not speak of this matter to her brother. And a wild impulse—one she did not stop to question—urged her to see that the young soldier was not brought to any accounting for whatever he had done.
She wondered how much Hugh might know, and how much was only suspicion,—surmise. And with the intent to satisfy herself as to this, she said, "Just because you saw a redcoat watching me, as you thought, and at a distance, you forthwith accuse me of walking with him."
She spoke with a fine show of impatience and reproof, but still permitting him to hold and caress her hand.
"Aye, Dot, but there be redcoats and redcoats. And this one happened to be that yellow-faced gallant we are forever meeting, the one you—"