“No, no,” she ejaculated; “but you—you, Paul—”
Again her power of utterance forsook her, and she stood before him with downcast eyes. The hand holding the shawl was quivering visibly; there was a flare of burning suspense beneath her eyelids.
“I see,” he said, regretfully. “Your grief has got the upper hand again. You can't fully master it yet. It may be that way for some time, but you must keep trying to view it right, for it is right, Ethel. I am more positive of it to-night than ever before.”
“It is not that—oh, it isn't that!” Ethel cried. “It is you, Paul—you and—”
“I really don't understand,” he said, bewildered. “You say that I—”
She released her hold on the shawl and laid her hand on his arm. “I must own the truth,” she began, tremulously, her voice steadying bravely as she hurried on. “I listened to what you and my uncle said when you got home to-night. You were beneath my window and I could not resist it.”
“Oh, I see!” A light broke on him. “And you thought—”
“You went to your room and then hurried away—you went straight toward Jeff Warren's cabin, and—”
“And you counted on hearing gunshots,” he laughed, reassuringly. “Well, there were none. I owed him an apology and I made it. We are friends now, and I have my mother back.”
“Oh, Paul, was that all?” He could almost see her face glow in the darkness. “I was afraid—oh, I was afraid that all your troubles were going to begin over again!”