She turned around, and in a minute more she saw him coming forward to speak to her. A start, and she recovered herself enough to speak to him, but her voice faltered, and the little hand, as it touched his, was deadly cold. It was like the old, sad song:
"We met—'twas in a crowd,
And I thought he would shun me,
He came, I could not breathe,
For his eyes were upon me,
He spoke—his words were cold,
Though his smile was unaltered—
I knew how much he felt,
For his deep-toned voice faltered."
She did not know what he was saying to her, or what she murmured in reply. She could realize nothing clearly but the ecstatic consciousness of his presence, that had such power to thrill her whole being.
Then she found herself slipping into a seat by Helen, and twining her cold fingers in those of her friend. They turned the conversation cleverly away from her, but in a very few moments George Fox got up and left the room, saying as he went:
"I will get those specimens we were talking about, Ralph."
Ten minutes later he called down the stairs:
"Helen, will you please come up and help me find those things I brought from Palestine for Ralph?"
"George can never find anything without my assistance," laughed the young girl, as she excused herself and left the room.
The unhappy lovers were alone together—perhaps by the clever scheming of George and Helen, perhaps by chance; who could tell?
There ensued a moment of intense embarrassment. Kathleen, sitting with down-dropped eyes, felt her lover's eager brown eyes upon her, and a deep blush arose to her beautiful face. Slowly she raised her bashful eyes and they met his—deep, passionate, reproachful, beseeching, all in one. In spite of herself, her own gaze replied to that look—answered love for love.