“Yes,” and he frowned impatiently, for it was a weak attempt to deny what Violet had told him that night.
“But you never answered it,” reproachfully.
“I did not think it necessary,” he replied, coldly.
“You did not credit my denial?” sadly.
“Pray pardon me from discussing it with you,” Cecil rejoined, in icy tones, and she flushed with wounded pride.
“Oh, how cruelly I am misunderstood!” she exclaimed. “Listen, Cecil. Only this morning Violet admitted to me that what she told you that night was only a vision of her delirious brain, and begged my pardon for the wrong I did her. She is deeply grieved over it, and said that as soon as she saw you she would vindicate my truthfulness to you.”
Cecil turned a keen glance on the dark, sparkling face, and it looked so frank and earnest and truthful, that he did not know how to doubt her statement.
“Oh, please believe me,” cried Amber, with sweet solicitude. “Indeed I am your true friend, Cecil, and Violet’s, too—alas, the only friend you have, for every one at Golden Willows is against you, and if you do not trust me with your letters to her, I do not know how you are ever to communicate with her at all.”
“Will you drive with me a little way, as my pony is restless and will not stop longer,” she added, sweetly.
He assented, and they drove slowly along the road in the sweet September afternoon.