“Oh, Mr. Rochford, is it you? Yes; they are earlier here than anywhere. They are only snow-drops, after all.”
She looked not unlike a snow-drop herself, with a white wrapper wound round her throat, and her head, which drooped a little—but not till after she had recognized him with a rapid glance and an overwhelming momentary blush which left her pale.
“I could think there would be always flowers wherever you trod,” he said.
“That’s poetry,” she replied, with a little tremulous laugh, in which there was excitement and a little nervous shivering from the cold. “It must have been you I heard galloping along,” she added, hurriedly, “like the wind. Are you in haste for the train?”
“I was in haste, hoping for a word with you before I started.”
“My father is expecting you, Mr. Rochford.”
“Yes; I did not mean your father. Won’t you say a kind word to me before I go?”
“Oh, if I could only thank you as I should like! Mr. Rochford, I do with my whole heart.”
“It is not thanks I want,” he said. “Ally—don’t be angry with me—if I come back—with—your brother.”
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, we will all—I don’t know what to say—bless you!”