The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.
"Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means."
"O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?"
"Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!—
Rotha!—"
She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age knows better.
"Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike your aunt so? You do not know her."
"O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up to her?"
"No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody. Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me, and we will talk this over. Come!"
Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took hers kindly and held it.
"Rotha—my child—I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated gravely.