“A chill night for your journey,” replied Molly. “I should think you’d wait for day, to travel.”
Peyton, unobservant of the wistful sigh by which the maid’s speech was accompanied, replied, “Nay, for me, ’tis safest travelling at night. I must go through dangerous country to reach our lines.”
“It mayn’t be as cold to-morrow night,” persisted Molly.
“My wound is well enough for me to go now.”
“’Twill be better still to-morrow.”
But Peyton, deep in his own preoccupation, neither deduced aught from the drift of her remarks nor saw the tender glances which attended them. While he was making some insignificant answer, the maid, in moving the candelabrum on the spinet, accidentally brushed therefrom his hat, which had been lying on it. She picked it up, in great confusion, and asked his pardon.
“’Twas my fault in laying it there,” said he, receiving it from her. “I’m careless with my things. I make no doubt, since I’ve been here, I’ve more than once given your mistress cause to wish me elsewhere.”
“La, sir,” said Molly, “I don’t think—any one would wish you elsewhere!” Whereupon she left the room, abashed at her own audacity.
“The devil!” thought Peyton. “I should feel better if some one did wish me elsewhere.”