Something in the tender solicitude of her voice, in the touch of her
gentle hands, gives me an agony of pain and remorse. I snatch away my
hands.
"No! no!" I cry, brusquely, "they do very well!"
Again she looks at me, with a sort of astonishment, a little mixed with
pain; but she does not say any thing. She goes over to the fire, and
stoops to take up the poker.
"Do not!" cry I, hastily, "there is plenty of light!--I mean--"
(stammering) "it--it--dazzles me, coming in out of the dark."
As I speak, I retire to a distant chair, as nearly as possible out of
the fire-light, and affect to be occupied with Vick, who has jumped up
on my lap, and--with all a dog's delicate care not to hurt you _really_
--is pretending severely to bite every one of my fingers. Barbara has
returned to the hearth-rug. She looks a little troubled at first; but,
after a moment or two, her face regains its usual serene sweetness.
"And I have been here ever since you left me!" she says, presently, with
a look of soft gayety. "I have had _no_ visitors! Not even"--(blushing
a little)--"the usual one.
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