“Let me gather them for you. What is the matter, Emma?”
“Matter? Nothing, sir. What should there be?”
“Here is a beauty. Will you take it?”
“Thank you. I never thought you would leave papa, Mr. Chandler.”
“But—don’t you perceive my reasons, Emma? What prospect is there for me as long as I remain here? What hope can I indulge, or even glance at, of—of settling in life?”
“I dare say you don’t want to settle.”
“I do not put the question to myself, because it is so useless.”
“I shall be late for dinner. Good-bye.”
She took a sudden flight to the little white side-gate of her house, which opened to the field, ran across the garden, and disappeared within doors. Tom, catching a glimpse of her face, saw that it was wet with tears.