"You need not rub it in like that, Anna. I was perfectly willing to do the square thing by you always, but you flared up, went away, and Heaven only knew what became of you. It's bad enough to have things made unpleasant for me in Boston on your account without having you queering my plans here." "Boston--I never told anyone in Boston." "No, but that row got into the papers about Langdon and the Tremonts cut me." "Hush," said Anna, as a spasm of pain crossed her face: "I never wish you to refer to my past life again." "Indeed, Anna, I am only too anxious to do the right thing by you, even now. If you will go away, I will give you what you want, if you don't intend to interfere between Kate and me." "Are you sure that Kate is in earnest? You know that the Squire intends her to marry Dave." "I shall have no difficulty in preventing that if you don't interfere." She did not answer. She was again considering the same old question that she had thrashed out a thousand times--should she tell Kate? How would she take it? Would the tragedy of her life be regarded as a little wild-oat sowing on the part of Sanderson and her own eternal disgrace? The man was in no humor for her silence. He grasped her roughly by the arm, and his voice was raised loud in angry protest. "Tell me--do you, or do you not intend to interfere?" In the excitement of the moment neither heard the outer door open, and neither heard David enter. He stood in his quiet way, looking from one to the other. Sanderson's angry question died away in some foolish commonplace, but David had heard and Anna and Sanderson knew it. CHAPTER XV. DAVID CONFESSES HIS LOVE. "Come live with me and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods, or steep mountains, yield."--_Marlowe_. Sanderson, recovering his self-possession almost immediately, drawled out: "Glad to see you, Dave. Came over thinking I might be in time to go over to Putnam's with your people. They had gone, so I stopped long enough to get warm. I must be going now. Good-night, Miss--Miss"--(he seemed, to have great difficulty in recalling the name) "Moore." David paid no attention to him; his eyes were riveted on Anna, who had changed color and was now like ivory flushing into life. She trembled and fell to her knees, making a pretense of gathering up her knitting that had fallen. "What brought Sanderson here, Anna? Is he anything to you--are you anything to him?" She tried to assume a playful lightness, but it failed dismally. It was all her pallid lips could do to frame the words: "Why, Mr. David, what a curious question! What possible interest could the 'catch' of the neighborhood have in your father's servant?" The suggestion of flippancy that her words contained irritated the grave, quiet man as few things could have done. He turned from her and would have left the room, but she detained him.