A strange stir came in John’s heart. All this while had he been thinking only of himself? All this while, why had he not written to Flora? In penitential tenderness, he took her hand, and, to his awe and trouble, it remained in his, compliant. A voice told him this was Flora, after all—told him so quietly, yet with a thrill of singing.
“And you never married?” said he.
“No, John; I never married,” she replied.
The hall clock striking two recalled them to the sense of time.
“And now,” said she, “you have been fed and warmed, and I have heard your story, and now it’s high time to call your brother.”
“O!” cried John, chapfallen; “do you think that absolutely necessary?”
“I can’t keep you here; I am a stranger,” said she. “Do you want to run away again? I thought you had enough of that.”
He bowed his head under the reproof. She despised him, he reflected, as he sat once more alone; a monstrous thing for a woman to despise a man; and, strangest of all, she seemed to like him. Would his brother despise him, too? And would his brother like him?
And presently the brother appeared, under Flora’s escort; and, standing afar off beside the doorway, eyed the hero of this tale.
“So this is you?” he said at length.