"Betty, go home," Rosalie had pleaded. "Go home--go home." And she had
refused, because she could not desert her.
She held her breath and pressed her hand against her side, because her
heart beat, as it seemed to her, with an actual sound. He moved with
unsteady steps from one point to another, more than once he stumbled,
and his angry oath reached her; at last he was so near her hiding place
that his short hard breathing was a distinct sound. A moment later he
spoke, raising his voice, which fact brought to her a rush of relief,
through its signifying that he had not even guessed her nearness.
"My dear Betty," he said, "you have the pluck of the devil, but
circumstances are too much for you. You are not on the road, and I have
been through the spinney. Mere logic convinces me that you cannot be far
away. You may as well give the thing up. It will be better for you."
"You who died to-day--do not leave me," was Betty's inward cry, and she
dropped her face on her knees.
"I am not a pleasant-tempered fellow, as you know, and I am losing my
hold on myself. The wind is blowing the mist away, and there will be a
moon. I shall find you, my good girl, in half an hour's time--and then
we shall be jolly well even.
Pages:
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904