“Oh! no,” she said cheerfully. “I have a Lisle-thread stocking, what there is left of it, between my right foot and the sticks, and stones, and briers, and thistles, and—so forth.”
He groaned out, “Oh! you poor little dear!” and seemed on the point of saying something he was afraid to say, hesitated, almost stopped, then stammered, “I suppose it would be impudent to offer to carry you as far as the house, but I hate to have you walk that way.”
“Oh! thank you!” answered Miss Clara. “I could not think, though, of receiving so much assistance from any one but my husband, or the one who is to be my husband.”
The sailor swallowed a great sigh, and they walked on, Clara hobbling fearfully.
“I wish that he were here now, whoever he may be,” she said in a plaintive voice, after a minute. “For, really—”
Her escort said not a word.
In a few minutes they reached the log-house, where Joe and the children had already arrived; and, waiting only for the men to wash the soot from their faces and hands, and to find a shoe which Miss Yorke could keep on her foot, they set out again, with a lantern.
At Mr. Marvin’s they found Major Cleaveland’s carriage awaiting them, and in twenty minutes they were at home, without having spoken a word on the way.
But when they reached there, Clara looked anxiously at her companion. “Can’t I do anything for you?” she asked.
He thanked her gravely. No, he needed nothing. She had better see to herself.