I had meant, of course, to keep out of her way; I had not intended that she should see me. But as I was going on eagerly to turn the corner of a wall round which she had gone, I came face to face with her; she was turning back, and so had met me. I stood shamed and foolish before her.
"Tinman! Were you following me?"
I could not lie to her; I raised my eyes pleadingly to hers, and stammered that I had followed her from the house.
"But why? Were you spying upon me?" She drew herself up, and looked at me scornfully; I trembled before her like a beaten dog. "I should have remembered that you are the servant of that man," she said.
I had almost flung myself at her feet; I know that I stretched out my hands to her, and clasped them in my frantic eagerness to make her understand. "Don't think that—don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "You don't understand—and I may not tell you; but I am your friend. If I could tell you what is in this poor bruised and broken heart of mine, you would understand, and would pity me and trust me. I am your friend—and his."
"His?" She looked at me with a sudden frown of astonishment.
"The boy you love—the boy who meets you sometimes in secret——"
"Ah! you have been spying, then!" she cried, drawing away from me.
"No—no—no; indeed I have not. It was by the merest accident I saw you meet him in the woods, and no living soul knows of that but myself. If I could only make you trust me!"
She came nearer to me—looked at me closely. "Who are you, or what were you?" she asked in a whisper. "You are no servant; you speak like a gentleman. Who are you—and what have you to do with me, or—or with any one else that concerns me?"