She ran
home, and up to a certain window with her opera-glass. But the
branches and foliage of the huge oak would have concealed pairs
and pairs of lovers.
Godfrey turned toward Letty. She had not stirred.
"What a beautiful creature Miss Yolland is!" she said, looking up
with a smile of welcome, and a calmness that prevented the
slightest suspicion of a flattering jealousy.
"I was coming to _you_," returned Godfrey. "I never saw her
till her head came up over the ha-ha.--Yes, she is beautiful--at
least, she has good eyes."
"They are splendid! What a wife she would make for you, Cousin
Godfrey! I should like to see such a two."
Letty was beyond the faintest suggestion of coquetry. Her words
drove a sting to the heart of Godfrey. He turned pale. But not a
word would he have spoken then, had not Letty in her innocence
gone on to torture him. She sprang from the ground.
"Are you ill, Cousin Godfrey?" she cried in alarm, and with that
sweet tremor of the voice that shows the heart is near. "You are
quite white!--Oh, dear! I've said something I oughtn't to have
said! What can it be? Do forgive me, Cousin Godfrey." In her
childlike anxiety she would have thrown her arms round his neck,
but her hands only reached his shoulders. He drew back: such was
the nature of the man that every sting tasted of offense. But he
mastered himself, and in his turn, alarmed at the idea of having
possibly hurt her, caught her hands in his.
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