"Of course, people will be inquisitive, and there will be a lot of speculation; but never mind that. Your father and mother will be mighty glad to get you back home, and I am sure your father will see to it that you—that you'll have no more cause to run away from home."
"What—what?"
"Why, he'll see that you do not have so much work—man's work, to do. Yes, regular downright drudgery it was. Why, I hardly blame you for running away, that is, taking a brief vacation." He went on talking, she looking silently into the fire. "But now," he said finally, "you have had a good rest, and you are ready to go home."
She sat rigidly looking at the glow in the grate. He kept on talking cheerfully, optimistically, as if he wished to prevent the gloom of night to overwhelm them. Then, presently, the girl seemed to shake herself free from some benumbing influence, as she turned to him and said:
"Dorian, why, really why have you gone to all this trouble to find me?"
"Why, we all wanted to know what had become of you. Your father is a changed man because of your disappearance, and your mother is nearly broken hearted."
"Yes, I suppose so; but is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"No."
"Well, I—I—"