They conversed together for a time upon indifferent topics and then silence gradually settled down, broken in an unexpected way—Serena bowed her head upon her clasped hands and began to weep softly, to all appearance repressing her emotion by a great effort.
The old man caught the sound of her stifled sobs, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"Serena! Good heavens, child!" he exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, "what is the matter? Why are you crying? Lift your head, my dear, and look me in the eyes."
She obeyed him, dabbing her eyes with her lace-bordered handkerchief as she did so, as though in shame and confusion at being detected in such weakness as this.
"It is nothing," she faltered, brokenly. "I am going away—that is all. I ought to have gone long ago, but—I could not leave you so ill and uncared for; and then I was taken ill myself. And I—I think it best that I should leave here at once; for I have learned to—to care too much for you, Mr. Dane. This feeling must be conquered."
"Serena, I did not believe that your expressed affection for me could be anything serious."
"Oh, Mr. Dane!"
She lifted her pale blue eyes to his face with a swift look of entreaty, then they drooped again.
"Serena, do you wish to leave me?" he asked, anxiously.
"No, no, I do not! I would not go if I could help it," she sobbed. "But I can not stay in this way, Mr. Dane. It is not proper. I am an unmarried woman, and you—you—"