“I could not be so cruel as that, Rotha; do you think I could?”
A smile was playing upon his features as he smoothed her hair over her forehead and drew forward the loose hood that had fallen from it.
“And there is nothing to come after—nothing?”
“Nothing that need mar your happiness, my girl, or disturb your love. You love your father, do you not?”
“Better than all the world!” Rotha answered impulsively. “Poor father!”
“Better than all the world,” echoed Ralph vacantly, and with something like a sigh. Her impetuous words seemed to touch him deeply, and he repeated them once more, but they died away on his lips. “Better than all the—” Then they walked on.
They had almost reached the belt of trees that overhung the road.
“Ralph,” said Rotha, pausing, “may I—kiss you?”
He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. Then the weight about his heart seemed heavier than before. By that kiss he felt that between him and the girl at his side there was a chasm that might never be bridged. Had he loved her? He hardly knew; he had never put it to himself so. Did she not love him? He could not doubt it. And her kiss! yes, it was the kiss of love; but what love? The frank, upturned face answered him but too well.
They were within the shadow of the trees now, and could see the lights at Shoulthwaite. In two minutes more their journey would be done.