She shuddered.
“Oh! don’t call me by that name—here!” broke from her, imploringly.
“What name shall I call you by?” half wonderingly; then in a lower semi-smothered tone of entreaty—“Augusta?”
Lower sank her head in her hands; but there was no answer save her sobs. It was thus he had addressed her there once before.
“Augusta!”—and this time the hand on her shoulder shook—“Augusta—dear Augusta, once on this very spot I found you weeping thus, and I begged to be allowed to share your grief. I told you I would give my life to serve you—what I said then I repeat now—I would give my life to serve you, and you know it!” He gently drew one hand from her agitated face. “Tell me your trouble, as you would tell it to a brother!”
A brother—ah, that was it! She drew her hand back, but she did not rise, and her sobs seemed to choke her.
Again he took her hand, and his other arm went round her soothingly, protectingly. “Oh, Augusta, this is inexpressibly painful to me. I love you, as never man loved woman. Can you not tell me what troubles you?” and the earnest tenderness of his voice made strange music in her ears.
He had seated himself on the narrow window-ledge beside her, and now he thought she was about to punish his presumption and quit him haughtily as before.
But no! She only slid from his arm to his very feet, and cried, with still covered face—