“Thank God, I see you at last, darling!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he held out his arms. But to his amazement she drew back, warding off his embrace with a hand that was firm, strong, and cold as ice.
“You must go—you must never come again!” she said, in a voice filled with suffering.
The little wood-house was between them and the cottage, and some tall trees bordering the little street threw a shadow over them.
“But, darling, what's the matter?” he cried. “What has changed you so remarkably? Why, little girl—”
“Do you mean, you haven't—haven't heard?” She clutched the shawl under her marble-like chin and stared at him, her pretty lips parted and quivering piteously.
“Heard what?” he asked. “I have heard nothing—certainly no bad news. I've been away for a week, and only came home this evening.”
She lowered her head, and stood silent and motionless. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently shook her.
“Tell me,” he urged, groping for an explanation of her agitation, “is your mother ill again? Is she worse?”
“No, it isn't that—God knows even that would be a blessing. Kenneth, I'm ruined!”
“You don't mean?—you can't mean?—” He stood aghast before her, quivering now from head to foot.