Then when her passionate grief had spent itself, she rose as she saw
Peter coming hurriedly to meet her.
"What is the matter, Mysie?" he asked with real concern in his voice,
noting the tear-stained face and her over-wrought condition. "What is
it, Mysie?"
But Mysie did not answer just then, and they both turned and passed into
the grove, walking separately, as if afraid of each other's touch, and
something repellent keeping them apart.
They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on that
other fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silence
elapsed before words were again spoken.
"Now, Mysie," said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracing
himself to hear unpleasant news, "I want to know what is wrong. What is
the matter?" and he feared to hear her tell her trouble.
But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as if
the frail little body would break completely under the strain of her
grief.
"Mysie," he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it,
"what is it, dear? Tell me."
"You shouldn't need to ask," she replied between her sobs. "You
shouldn't need to ask when you should ken.
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