"No, no, child; I shall not sit up."
When they came to the end of the village, Frank turned on to the roadway, at the back of the parsonage. Edina, who was on his arm, asked him why he did so: the Bare Plain was the nearer way.
"But this is less dreary," was his answer. "We shall be there soon enough."
"Nay, I think the Bare Plain far less dreary than the road: especially on such a night as this," said Edina. "Here we are over-shadowed by trees: on the Plain we have the full moonlight."
He said no more: only kept on his way. It did not matter; it would make only about three minutes' difference. Edina stepped out cheerfully; she never made a fuss over trifles. By-and-by, she began to wonder at his silence. It was very unusual.
"Have you a headache, Frank?"
"No. Yes. Just a little."
Edina said nothing to the contradictory answer. Something unusual and unpleasant had decidedly occurred to him.
"How did you bruise your shoulder?" she presently asked.
"Oh—gave it a knock," he said, after the slightest possible pause. "My shoulder's all right, Edina: don't talk about it. Much better than that confounded Molly Janes's bruises are."