“You are right, Lilias,” he said, gravely, “there is yet one Graeme remaining of the blood; but even you must not speak to me of him.”
Her face had been lifted to him full of eagerness: when he said that her countenance fell—she was silent.
“Nay,” said her guardian, kindly, “I do not mean that there is anything, Lilias, of which you may not speak to me with the utmost freedom; but this youth, this Halbert—you do not and cannot know how strong my reasons are for resolving never to see him, nor to suffer his presence at Mossgray.”
“Is it for himself; has he displeased you himself, Mossgray?” asked Lilias, with some timidity.
Adam Graeme sat down near her, and met her shy glance with his own benign, unclouded smile.
“We will speak of him no more, Lilias, if you are afraid.”
“No, no, I am not afraid,” said Lilias, hurriedly; “but you must let me be proud—for myself and for you.”
The old man smiled again.
“Surely, Lilias, if you will tell me how and why.”
“For myself,” said Lilias, with some tremor in her voice, “because I would fain have you believe, Mossgray, that it is your own tenderness I prize, and not any gift—not any inheritance.”