"Sit down. You are not fit for any more walking."
He drew her towards some logs of driftwood on the upper sand, and she
sank down upon them. He found a place beside her.
"What is the matter with you?" he said, abruptly, with a harsh
authority. "You are in trouble."
A tremor shook her--as of the prisoner who feels on his limbs the first
touch of the fetter.
"No, no!" she said, trying to rise; "it is nothing. I--I didn't know it
was so far. I must go home."
His hand held her.
"Kitty!"
"Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible.
"Tell me what hurts you! Tell me why you are here, alone, with a face
like that! Don't be afraid of me! Could I lift a finger to harm a
mother that has lost her child? Give me your hands." He gathered both
hers into the warm shelter of his own. "Look at me--trust me! My heart
has grown, Kitty, since you knew me last. It has taken into itself so
many griefs--so many deaths. Tell me your griefs, poor child!--tell me!"
He stooped and kissed her hands--most tenderly, most gravely.
Tears rushed into her eyes. The wild emotions that were her being were
roused beyond control. Bending towards him she began to pour out, first
brokenly, then in a torrent, the wretched, incoherent story, of which
the mere telling, in such an ear, meant new treachery to William and new
ruin for herself.
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