"Yes, Fanny," said I, "it was serious." And then I told her what had occurred. She held out her hand and pressed mine sympathetically.
"I am so sorry, Tom," was all she said; but she said it so kindly that her voice almost brought the tears to my eyes.
"Has Elsie spoken to you since I went, Fanny?" I asked, as we walked down to the house together, while my horse followed with his head hanging down.
"I haven't even seen her, Tom," she replied; "the door was locked, and when I knocked she told me to go away, which, as it's my room too, was not very polite."
In spite of my love for Elsie, I felt somewhat bitter against her injustice to me, and I was glad to see that I made her suffer a little on her part. I know I have said very little about my own feelings, for I don't care somehow to put down all that I felt, any more than I like to tell any stranger all that is near my heart; but I did feel strongly and deeply, and to see her, who was with me by day and night as the object of my fondest hope, so unjust, was enough to make me bitter. I wished to reproach her, for I was not a child—a boy, to be fooled with like this.
"Go and ask her to see me, Fanny, please," I said rather sternly, as I stood outside the door. "And don't tell her anything of what I told you, either of Will or Matthias."
Fanny started.
"You never said anything of Matthias!" she cried.
"Didn't I, Fanny? Well, then, I will. He has escaped from prison, and I suppose he is after me by this. But don't tell Elsie. Just say I want to see her."
In a few moments she came back, with tears in her eyes.