The window was a long French window, and Tilly stepped out and joined him upon the piazza. "Come around here where nobody can see or overhear us," she said. He followed her down the steps to a sheltered rustic seat.
"You haven't read it?" she asked.
"Read it? No!" Will answered a little huffily. "You asked me not to until I had seen you."
Tilly colored, and then, "You are a gentleman!" she burst out vehemently.
"Well, I hope so," Will answered.
"And so is Tom Raymond. I had done him such an injustice; but he's turned out so different from what I supposed he was. Oh, he's just splendid! and if you—" But here—I'm half ashamed to record it of my plucky little Tilly—here, suddenly overcome by all the excitement she had been through, Tilly broke down and began to cry.
"Oh, don't! I wish you wouldn't, now! Oh, I say!" cried Will, in boyish embarrassment.
Poor Tilly checked her sobs by a vigorous effort; but tears continued to flow, and she fumbled vainly for her handkerchief to dry them.
"Here, here, take mine," said Will, hastily thrusting the cambric into her hand; "and don't you bother another bit about Agnes and her tantrums. I'll burn her old paper if you say so, and I won't read it at all."
"Oh, yes, yes, you'll have to read it now. She'll ask you,—she'll tell you. Yes, read it, read it, Will. I know you'll pity Peggy, as grandmother and I do."