I was used to her swift changes of mood, but what her words, or some of them, meant I knew not; and as for this pitying face, with its sudden sadness, what more did it mean? Major Andre said of her later that Mistress Darthea was like a lake in the hills, reflecting all things, and yet herself after all. But how many such tricksy ways, pretty or vexing, she was to show some of us in the years to come did not yet appear. In a moment I seemed to see before me the small dark child I first knew at school. Why was she now so curiously perturbed? “Mr. Wynne,” she said, “you never come near me now--oh, not for a month! And to-day your aunt has shown me a part of the dear mother’s letter, and--and--I am so sorry for you! I am indeed! I have long wanted to say so. I wish I could help you. I do not think you forget easily, and--and--you were so good to me when I was an ugly little brat. I think your mother loved me. That is a thing to make one think better of one’s self. I need it, sir. It is a pretty sort of vanity, and how vain you must be, who had so much of her love!” “I thank thee,” I said simply. Indeed, for a time I was so moved that say more I could not. “I thank thee, Miss Peniston. There is no one on earth whom I would rather hear say what thou hast said.” I saw her colour a little, and she replied quickly, “I am only a child, and I say what comes to my lips; I might better it often if I stayed to think.” “No!” I cried. Whenever she got into trouble--and she was ready to note the tenderness in my voice--this pretty pretext of the irresponsibility of childhood would serve her turn. “No,” said I; “I like dearly to hear my mother praised,--who could praise her too much?--but when it is thou who sayest of her such true things, how shall I tell thee what it is to me who love to hear thee talk--even nonsense?” “I talk nonsense? Do I?” “Yes, sometimes. I--want thee to listen to me. I have cared for thee--” “Now please don’t, Mr. Wynne. They all do it, and--I like you. I want to keep some friends.” “It is useless. Darthea. I am so made that I must say my say. Thou mayest try to escape, and hate it and me, but I have to say I love thee. No, I am not a boy. I am a man, and I won’t let thee answer me now.” “I do not want to. It would hurt you. You must know; every one knows. It was his fault and my aunt’s, all this gossip. I would have kept it quiet.” “It will never be,” I broke out. “Thou wilt never marry that man!” I knew when I said this that I had made a mistake. I had learned to distrust Arthur; but I had too little that was of moment to say against him to make it wise to speak as I had done. I was young in those days, and hasty. “Who?” says my lady, all on fire. “What man? Jack Warder? And why not? I do not know what I shall do.” “It is not my dear Jack,” I cried. “Why dost thou trifle with me?” “Your dear Jack, indeed! How he blushes! _I_ might ask _him_. He never would have the courage.”