The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and agitation.
"Take me out of here," was all I could muster composure enough to say.
He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow calm. At last he opened a little side-gate.
"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here."
And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city waterworks I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to answer Tom's anxious questions.
"It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was frightened walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face upset me."
"But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down?"
"No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father."
"Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you?"
My eyes filled up with tears again.