Richard Stopped and picking up a glass from the table moistened his lips. The silence continued. Down more than one face the tears were trickling, as they have trickled down millions of faces since. Kate had crept imperceptibly nearer until her hands could have touched Richard's knees. When Willits bent over her with a whispered comment a slight shiver ran through her, but she neither answered nor turned her head. It was only when Richard's voice finally ceased with the loud chirp of the cricket at the close of the beloved story, and St. George had helped her to her feet, that she seemed to awake to a sense of where she was. Even then she looked about her in a dazed way, as if she feared some one had been probing her heart--hanging back till the others had showered their congratulations on the reader. Then leaning forward she placed her hands in Richard's as if to steady herself, and with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her nature bent her head and kissed him softly on the cheek.
When the eggnog was being served and the guests were broken up into knots and groups, all discussing the beauty of the reading, she suddenly left Willits, who had followed her every move as if he had a prior right to her person, and going up to St. George, led him out of the room to one of the sofas in Richard's study, her lips quivering, the undried tears still trembling on her eyelids. She did not release his hand as they took their seats. Her fingers closed only the tighter, as if she feared he would slip from her grasp.
“It was all so beautiful and so terrible, Uncle George,” she moaned at last--“and all so true. Such awful mistakes are made and then it is too late. And nobody understands--nobody--nobody!” She paused, as if the mere utterance pained her, and then to St. George's amazement asked abruptly “Is there nothing yet from Harry?”
St. George looked at her keenly, wondering whether he had caught the words aright. It had been months since Harry's name had crossed her lips.
“No, nothing,” he answered simply, trying to fathom her purpose and completely at sea as to her real motive--“not for some months. Not since he left the ship.”
“And do you think he is in any danger?” She had released his hand, and with her fingers resting on the sleeve of his coat sat looking into his eyes as if to read their meaning.