Gill sat on the log and looked down the mountain-side to the village below. Lizzī took a seat close to him, and waited for his confidence. Apparently he was hesitating.
"What am I for if you can't tell me your troubles?" she asked impulsively, and caught him by the arm.
"I had a letter from mother, yesterday."
She withdrew her hand quickly, sat erect and waited for him to continue, ready to become intensely jealous of that mother, who was probably some selfish old woman that would not let her son marry.
Gill took from his pocket a neatly folded, daintily perfumed letter, the chirography of which was like steel-engraving. From it he read:
"'There are indications in your letter just received and read with the eagerness of a mother homesick for her only child, that your affections for the first time in your life are feeling with restless tendrils for a place to cling to in another woman's heart.'"
Gill could see from the corner of his eye the resolute expression melt on Lizzī's face and a gentle glow of color appear on her cheeks, while a soft look suffused her eyes. He continued:
"'Now I hasten to warn you. I care not how beautiful, how accomplished the woman is who enthralls you; if I hear again of this—rather, I should say, that if you do not write to me that you are free, I shall make my will according to your father's directions.'"
Lizzī had placed one arm on his shoulder and was reading the beautifully written lines, breathlessly looking for the threat she knew they embodied. When she saw it she rose to her feet, and passed her hand quickly over her eyes as if to brush away something that prevented her from seeing clearly. Gill stood up too, and, grasping her shoulder with one hand, gave her a little shake.