In her conscious self-abasement she did not perceive how bewildered—how absolutely frightened—this girl was. Mary Avon took back the letter mechanically; she stood silent for a second or two; then she said, almost in a whisper—
"Giving me all that money! Oh, I cannot take it—I cannot take it! I should not have stayed here—I should not have told him anything—I—I—wish to go away——"
But the common sense of the elder woman came to her rescue. She took the girl's hand firmly, and said—
"You shall not go away. And when it is your good fortune to meet with such a friend as that, you shall not wound him and insult him by refusing what he has given to you. No; but you will go at once and thank him."
"I cannot—I cannot," she said, with both her hands trembling. "What shall I say? How can I thank him? If he were my own father or brother, how could I thank him?——"
Her friend left the room for a second, and returned.
"He is in the library alone," said she. "Go to him. And do not be so ungrateful as to even speak of refusing."
The girl had no time to compose any speech. She walked to the library door, timidly tapped at it, and entered. The Laird was seated in an easy-chair, reading.
When he saw her come in—he had been expecting a servant with coffee, probably—he instantly put aside his book.
"Well, Miss Mary?" said he cheerfully.