“Now, now, Miss Austin, why do you take it so hard? He was a stranger to you, wasn’t he?”
“He was such a—such a fine man—” the girl’s stifled sobs impeded her speech.
At that, Miss Austin seemed turned to stone. “Killed him!” she whispered, in accent of terror.
“Yes—or else he killed himself—they don’t feel sure.” Mrs. Adams, once embarked on the narrative, told all she knew of the circumstances, and in the exciting recital, almost forgot to watch the effect of the tale on her listener.
But this effect was not entirely unnoted. At the partly open door, Old Salt Adams, stood, eavesdropping, but with a kindly, anxious look on his face, that boded no ill to any one.
And he noticed that the girl’s attention was wandering. She was pitifully white, her face drawn and scared, and soon she exclaimed, with a burst of nervous fury, “Stop! please stop! Leave the room, won’t you?”
It was not a command but an agonized entreaty. Mrs. Adams fairly jumped, and alarmed as well as offended, she rose and started for the door, only to meet her husband entering.
“Go downstairs, Esther,” he said, gravely, “I want to speak to Miss Austin myself.”
Staring at one then at the other, and utterly routed by this unbelievable turn of affairs, Mrs. Adams went.
Old Salt closed the room door, and turned to the trembling girl.
“Miss Austin,” he said kindly, “I like you, I want to help you—but I must ask you to explain yourself a little. The people in my house call you Miss Mystery. Why are you here? Why are you in Corinth at all?”
For a moment the girl seemed about to respond to his kindly, gentle attitude and address. Then, something stayed her, and she let her lovely face harden to a stony blankness, as she replied, “It is a bit intrusive, but I’ve no reason not to tell. I am an art student, and I came here to paint New England winter scenery.”
“I haven’t been here quite a week yet—and I’ve been picking out available bits—and for two days I’ve had a cold.”
“How did you get cold?” The voice was kind but it had a definite note, as if desirous of an accurate answer.
“How does any one get cold?” she said, trying to smile; “perhaps sitting in a draught—perhaps by means of a germ. It is almost well now.”
“Perhaps by walking in the snow, and getting one’s feet wet,” Mr. Adams suggested, and the girl turned frightened eyes on him.