"Dear Miss Puttenham!—how tired you are—and how wet! Let me take the cloak off."
And as she drew off the soaked waterproof, Catharine felt the trembling of the slight frame beneath.
"Come and sit by the fire," she said tenderly.
Alice sank into the chair that was offered her, her eyes fixed on Catharine. Every feature in the delicate oval face was pinched and drawn. The struggle with wild weather had drained the lips and the cheeks of colour, and her brown hair under her serge cap fell limply about her small ears and neck. She was an image not so much of grief as of some unendurable distress.
Catharine began to chafe her hands—but Alice stopped her—
"I am not cold—oh no, I'm not cold. Dear Mrs. Elsmere! You must think it so strange of me to come to you in this way. But I am in trouble—such great trouble—and I don't know what to do. Then I thought I'd come to you. You—you always seem to me so kind—you won't despise—or repulse me—I know you won't!"
Her voice sank to a whisper. Catharine took the two icy hands in her warm grasp.
"Tell me if there is anything I can do to help you."
"I—I want to tell you. You may be angry—because I've been Mary's friend—when I'd no right. I'm not what you think. I—I have a secret—or—I had. And now it's discovered—and I don't know what I shall do—it's so awful—so awful!"
Her head dropped on the chair behind her—and her eyes closed. Catharine, kneeling beside her, bent forward and kissed her.