"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way—meant humanity at large, rather than my own individual self."
"Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?" I said, taking a step nearer, and looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally penetrating.
"No, Medoline. You, least of any one I know," he said, quietly. I looked at him with surprise—perhaps a trifle grieved.
"Does that offend you?" he asked after a pause.
"It wounds me; for I am your friend."
"I am glad of that, little one."
"Glad that you have given me pain?" I asked, with an odd feeling as if I wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.
He left his chair and came to my side.
"Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline? I meant that it gave me pleasure that you were my friend. I did not think that you cared for me."
"I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard on me. I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one else, scarcely, to love." I was beginning to think I must either escape hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes, which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my tears.