"Let me get you some wine," he said. "It will revive you."
"No, no, I will not have anything!" she said. "Nothing could help me."
The tone made his heart ache, it was so hopeless.
He bent over her and removed her hat and gloves as deftly and tenderly as a woman could have done.
His anxious looks, his tender solicitude made her think of her father.
The tender recollection broke down the barriers of stony calm she was trying to maintain. Bowing her face on her hands she wept and sobbed aloud.
Mr. Lyle was greatly shocked and distressed at her vehement exhibition of grief. He brought a chair, and sitting down beside her, put his kindly old arm about her heaving shoulders.
"Tell your old uncle what grieves you, pet," he said. "Perhaps I can help to set it right."
And after a little more passionate weeping she answered, without looking up:
"It is one of those troubles that nothing can set right, Uncle Rob, but I will tell you the truth, for perhaps you may hear it from other lips than mine soon."