"You are almost a stranger," said Jessie, conscious that any remark was better, under the circumstances, than silence.
"Am I?" Hendrickson still held her hand, and still gazed into her eyes. The ardor of his glances reminded her of duty and of danger. Her hand disengaged itself from his—her eyes fell to the floor—a deep crimson suffused her countenance. They seated themselves—she on the sofa, and he on a chair drawn close beside, or rather nearly in front of her. How heavily beat the maiden's heart! What a pressure, almost to suffocation, was on her bosom! She felt an impending sense of danger, but lacked the resolution to flee.
"Miss Loring," said Hendrickson, his unsteady voice betraying his inward agitation, "when I last saw you"—
"Sir!" There was a sudden sternness in the young girl's voice, and a glance of warning in her eye. But the visitor was not to be driven from his purpose.
"It is not too late, Jessie Loring!" He spoke with eagerness.
She made a motion as if about to rise, but he said in a tone that restrained her.
"No, Miss Loring! You must hear what I have to say to-night."
She grew very pale; but looked at him steadily.
So unexpected were his intimations—so imperative his manner, that she was, in a degree, bereft for the time of will.
"You should have spared me this, Mr. Hendrickson," she answered, sadly, and with a gentle rebuke in her tones.