"You were good to come so soon," she was saying.
"It was good to come," he rejoined, warmly. "You know how glad I am
for every opportunity I have to see you."
"What is the matter with your hand?" she asked, quickly. "Your right
hand?"
"I hurt it," he answered, easily. "Nothing serious. It will be well in
a day or two."
"How did you hurt it?" she persisted.
"Really, Miss Crawford," he retorted, trying to laugh away the
seriousness of her tone, "there are so many ways for a man to damage
his epidermis in this sort of work--"
She was standing close to him, looking intently up into his face
through the gathering darkness.
"Tell me--why did you do it?"
"What? Smash my fingers?"
"Yes. In the way you did!"
"What do you mean?" he hesitated, wondering what she knew.
"On Brayley's face! Why did you fight with him?"
"Who told you?"
"Brayley. He had to come to see father this evening. I saw his face. I
heard him tell father that he had had trouble with one of the men. I
was afraid that it was you! I followed him out into the yard and asked
him. It is no doubt none of my business--but will you tell me why you
fought with him?"
"I think that I would answer anything you cared to ask me, Miss
Crawford," he replied, quietly. "Will you sit down with me for a
little?" He moved slowly at her side, back to the seat in the
summer-house, grateful for any reason which gave him the privilege of
talking with her, watching her quick play of expression.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174