But Amy's words only kindled the fire already smouldering in Frances' heart. Did they not recall to her remembrance the flower Charles had sent her? The embroidery he had taken? The hurt she had received from his horse? The interest he had afterwards taken in her welfare?
"I know you misjudged me, Miss Strickland; do not be afraid to say so."
"Afraid!" repeated Frances, scornfully, "No, you are mistaken; do you suppose I should consult your feelings?"
"No," replied Amy, sorrowfully, "I am sure you would not; I might have thought otherwise a few minutes ago, but now—"
"Now, I hope you are convinced that whatever I thought on the occasion referred to, I think still."
"I am sorry," replied Amy, much in the same tone she had said it to Charles the day before, "because you are wrong."
"I am not. Do you suppose I am blind, and do not see the interest he takes in your welfare?"
"Scarcely more so than he would show to a stranger whose wrist had been injured partly from his own fault in saying his horse was a quiet one, when the accident proved it to have been otherwise. Your manner, Miss Strickland, placed me in a very awkward position. Mr. Charles Linchmore noticed it as well as myself, and I think it irritated and annoyed him, but I, of course, had no right to feel hurt; I will try and act differently for the future."
But Frances answered not. Slowly her brow contracted—slowly her passion seemed to rise.
Suddenly she stood up and confronted her fancied rival, hatred, revenge, anger, by turns burning in her eyes, while at each sentence she uttered she stamped her foot impatiently, as if to give emphasis to what she said.