insisted that she should take it; and, searching the
summer-house, found a wooden stool for himself. The small
circular room received but little of the dim outer light--they
were near each other--they were silent. Sydney burst suddenly
into a nervous little laugh.

"Why do you laugh?" he asked good-humoredly.

"It seems so strange, Mr. Linley, for us to be out here." In the
moment when she made that reply her merriment vanished; she
looked out sadly, through the open door, at the stillness of the
night. "What should I have done," she wondered, "if I had been
shut out of the house by myself?" Her eyes rested on him timidly;
there was some thought in her which she shrank from expressing.
She only said: "I wish I knew how to be worthy of your kindness."

Her voice warned him that she was struggling with strong emotion.
In one respect, men are all alike; they hate to see a woman in
tears. Linley treated her like a child; he smiled, and patted her
on the shoulder. "Nonsense!" he said gayly. "There is no merit in
being kind to my good little governess."

She took that comforting hand--it was a harmless impulse that she
was unable to resist--she bent over it, and kissed it gratefully.
He drew his hand away from her as if the soft touch of her lips
had been fire that burned it. "Oh," she cried, "have I done
wrong?"

"No, my dear--no, no."