She gazes at the floor. ''I hope I am, too, sir.'' I take a step. ''She is a very good girl,'' I say. ''A very good girl, indeed.''
But the words are hasty, imperfect. He catches my eye, draws back his thumb. ''Of course,'' he says smoothly, ''she could not help but be good. No girl could help it, Miss Lilly, with you for her example.''
''You are too kind,'' I say.
''No gentleman could but be, I think, with you to be kind to.'' He keeps his gaze on mine. He has picked me out, found sympathies in me, means to pluck me from the heart of Briar, unscratched; and I would not be myself, niece to my uncle, if I could meet the look he shows me now without feeling the stir of some excitement, dark and awful, in my own breast. But I feel it too hard, and grow almost queasy. I smile; but the smile stretches tight. Sue tilts her head. Does she suppose me smiling at my own love? The thought makes the smile tighter still, I begin to feel it as an ache about my throat. I avoid her eye, and his. He goes, but makes her step to him and they stand a moment, murmuring at the door. He gives her a coin—I see the yellow gleam of it—he puts it into