“Roseye,” I said. “Where have you been?”
She turned her gaze upon the fire. Her face remained hard-set. The expression upon her white countenance was one of tragedy.
Her chest heaved and fell, and I saw that her ungloved hands, grasping the arms of the chair, were trembling.
“You are cold!” I cried. And dashing to the cupboard I got out some brandy and a siphon.
She sipped a few drops from the glass I offered her, smiling in grateful acknowledgment.
Then, as I stood upon the hearthrug facing her, I repeated my question:
“Tell us, Roseye. Where have you been?”
In her great blue eyes I noticed a strange, vacant expression; a look such as I had never seen there before. She only shook her head mournfully.
“What has happened?” I inquired, bending and placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.
But, with a sudden movement, she buried her face in her small hands and burst into a torrent of tears.