He arose from the chair in the shade of the Baltimore Belle and walked to the door.
“Miss Holly,” he called.
“Yes?” The voice came from up-stairs.
“Are you very, very busy?”
“N-no, not very, Mr. Winthrop.”
“Then will you grant a dying man the grace of a few moments of your valuable time?”
There was a brief moment of hesitation, broken by the anxious voice of Miss India.
“Holly!” called her aunt, indignantly, “go down at once and see what Mr. Winthrop wants. I reckon Phœbe has forgotten to take him his negus.”
Winthrop smiled, and groaned. Holly’s steps pattered across the hall and he went back to the end of the porch, dragging a second chair with him and placing it opposite his own. When Holly came he pointed to it gravely. Holly’s heart fell. Winthrop had a right to know the truth, but it didn’t seem fair that the duty of confessing Julian’s act should fall to her. The cowardice of it loomed large and terrible to her.
