Rosalind turned round, half reassured.
“Oh, do you know papa?” she said. “He has been very ill all night, but he is better, though terribly exhausted. He has had some sleep this morning.”
She was elevated upon the log, which she had begun to cross, and thus looked down upon the stranger. If he knew her father, that made all the difference; and surely the face was one with which she was not unfamiliar.
“I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one hears of him constantly in the village. I am glad he is better.”
He hesitated, as if he too was about to mount the log.
“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalind, hurrying on.
CHAPTER XII.
“To whom were you talking, Rosalind?”
“To—nobody, Uncle John!” she said, in her surprise at the sudden question which came over her shoulder, and, turning round, waited till he joined her. She had changed her mind and come back after she had crossed the water upon the impromptu bridge, with a half apprehension that her new acquaintance intended to accompany her to the village, and had, to tell the truth, walked rather quickly to the park gates.
“But I met the man—a young fellow—whose appearance I don’t know.”