"What is the matter with you?" he said, abruptly, with a harsh authority. "You are in trouble."
A tremor shook her—as of the prisoner who feels on his limbs the first touch of the fetter.
"No, no!" she said, trying to rise; "it is nothing. I—I didn't know it was so far. I must go home."
His hand held her.
"Kitty!"
"Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible.
"Tell me what hurts you! Tell me why you are here, alone, with a face like that! Don't be afraid of me! Could I lift a finger to harm a mother that has lost her child? Give me your hands." He gathered both hers into the warm shelter of his own. "Look at me—trust me! My heart has grown, Kitty, since you knew me last. It has taken into itself so many griefs—so many deaths. Tell me your griefs, poor child!—tell me!"
He stooped and kissed her hands—most tenderly, most gravely.
Tears rushed into her eyes. The wild emotions that were her being were roused beyond control. Bending towards him she began to pour out, first brokenly, then in a torrent, the wretched, incoherent story, of which the mere telling, in such an ear, meant new treachery to William and new ruin for herself.