As infancy and grace.
Shakespeare.
Fern looked a little surprised at Erle’s speech. “I did not know you had been poor, too,” she returned, drying her eyes, and taking up her work again.
“Yes, but I was very young, and knew little about it; my poor mother was the one to suffer. Well, she wanted for nothing when my uncle took us to Belgrave House; he was very good to her until she died; and,” with a slight hesitation in his voice, “he is good to me.”
“Yes, and you are right to be fond of him,” returned Fern, frankly. “Sometimes I think it is not quite kind of me to speak to you of Percy and our troubles, because it seems to cast a reflection on one you love and”—but Erle interrupted her.
“I hope you will never withhold your confidence, Miss Trafford; I should not feel that you treated me as a friend if you did not allow me to share some of your troubles. Percy and I are like brothers, and Percy’s mother and sister—” but here he paused and a flush crossed his face. How could he tell this girl that she should be as a sister to him, when he knew that even to be alone with her for a few minutes made his heart beat with strange thrills of happiness? His sister, never!
Fern felt a little confused at the sudden pause. She wished in a vague sort of way that he would finish his sentence and tell her what he meant; the silence was becoming awkward.
Fern worked on desperately, but her cheeks were burning. Both of them felt relieved when they heard footsteps approaching—Erle especially, for some dim instinct told him that in another minute he should have betrayed himself.
Both of them rose simultaneously as the door opened; and at the same moment Fluff, hugging herself among the sofa cushions, whispered into the kitten’s ear:
“They don’t know that I heard every word. One of these days I shall go and see grandpapa, and ask him why we may not come and live with him as well as Percy. Erle would like it, I know; he is so fond of Fern.”