His voice was stern, yet a thrill of such tender anxiety ran through it that she felt instinctively he was her friend. Clinging to him piteously, she sobbed:
“Oh, do not scold me! I am so unhappy!”
The piteous voice went to his heart, and as they stood there together, she trembling like a leaf as she clung to him, he could not resist pressing the little hand on his arm, and answering, gently:
“I did not wish to be harsh with you, but I do not understand, you know.”
Viola was frightened almost to death. She faltered:
“I can not explain. I can only confess that I was very unhappy, and wished to die! You will not tell papa, will you?”
“I must do so in order that you may be watched to prevent another attempt at suicide,” he replied, gravely; adding: “May I take you home now?”
“Oh, not yet, please! I am afraid—afraid!” she wailed, dreading her father’s wrath. “Oh, let us walk along the streets awhile, please.”
She thought she could persuade him to keep her secret, but he was resolute in taking her home and telling her father.
“I dare not trust you unless you promise not to make such another attempt,” he said, so firmly that she cried, petulantly: