The tears burst passionately from her beautiful eyes as she finished.
“Do not weep; he is not worthy that you should shed a tear for him. Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I know your history, and before I saw you my heart bled for your sufferings and your wrongs.”
His voice had softened to its tenderest accents, and its tones were very sweet and pleasant to the young and almost friendless girl’s ears.
She raised her head, and gazed with gratitude for a moment into his expressive eyes; and she saw within them that which made her own droop instantly, while the rich crimson tide again rushed upward, suffusing her whole face. He could not resist giving the delicate hand he held just the least little bit of a pressure, then hastened to relieve her confusion by asking:
“Did you not know the young man who officiated as bridegroom in the heartless mockery you have just witnessed? Your words lead me to infer as much.”
“No,” she answered. “We were so excited over Miss Dupont’s sufferings, that we never thought to ask who her persecutor was. Our thoughts and sympathies were only for her. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I know him well. I met him in New York, where we both first met Miss Dupont.”
“And his name?” she asked.
“Shall I tell you—can you bear to know it?”
“Why not? Oh, yes—quick—your face tells me that it is one in whom I am interested,” she said, breathlessly.