It was dusk but not dark; the bared trees, the wintry shrubs, the cold beds telling of the departed flowers, all spoke of loneliness. But not more lonely, they, than Ethel.
She stood when she came to the outer gate and flung her arms upon it, sobbing bitterly; gazing down the avenue, as if longing to go forth into the world for ever. Alas, there was no chance of that; she was tied to this home, so oftentimes made miserable. Had Ethel been poor she might have gone out as governess: but that plea could not be raised.
Bending her face upon her hands, which rested still upon the gate, she gave way to all the minute's gloomy anguish, weeping aloud. Not a living being was in sight or hearing; she believed herself as much alone as though it had been some unpeopled desert and could indulge her passionate grief at will.
"Oh Ethel, what is this?"
It was a soft, low, pained voice that spoke the words in her ear; a fond hand was laid upon her head; the only voice, the only hand that could have thrilled her heart.
Mr. North, passing into the avenue on his way home from sketching the piece of the old barn, his portfolio being under his arm, had come upon her thus. Opening the gate, he drew her on to the bench under the high laurel trees and sat down by her.
"Now, tell me what it is?"
Beguiled by the seduction of the moment, smarting still under the treatment she had received, contrasting his loving, gentle kindness with the cruel indifference of the only mother she had ever known, Ethel sobbed out a brief account of what had passed. His breast heaved with angry passion.
"Is it often so, Ethel?"
"Oh yes, very. It has been so for years. I have never had any one to really love me since my father died; I have never known what it is to have a securely happy home: only this one of frequent turbulence. I wish I could run away from it!"