It was Leighton’s solitary figure that Zelda’s eyes followed. She saw him pause just at the edge of a strip of woodland, glance toward the house, and then walk slowly away, while her eyes still rested on the spot where she had seen him last.
It was a sweet thing to know that Morris Leighton loved her. She had felt that it would come sometime; it was one of the inevitable things; and his reference to her singing, to the dream, had thrilled her with an exquisite delight. Any woman might be proud of a love like his; yet she had treated it lightly, almost insolently; and a good woman might not lightly thrust aside the love of a good man!
She was still gazing with unseeing eyes upon the moonlit world when Olive came to the door, tried it and found it locked.
“Wait a minute!” called Zelda, and she crossed the room and opened the door.
“Please, Cousin Zee, I came to beg forgiveness. I didn’t mean to scold you,—about anything!”
Zelda drew her in, and put her arms about her.
“There’s no one as fine and dear as you in all the world, Olive. I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. And I was wrong! I am always wrong; I’m made wrong, that’s what’s the matter with me!”
And her dark eyes peered pitifully into Olive’s blue ones.
“Please don’t think I would meddle in your affairs, Zee. I was just sorry for Mr. Leighton, that’s all. He’s so fine and strong and good,—and he seemed so dejected, or I thought he did.”
“Oh, it’s the goodness; it’s the goodness that I hate!” cried Zelda. “Please go,—I don’t know what I mean,” and she thrust Olive into the hall and closed the door.