She looked at me for an instant--then turned her head aside in the
chair. Her handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her
position, and she hurriedly hid her face from me in her hands.
Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest, happiest child that
ever laughed the day through, and to see her now, in the flower of
her age and her beauty, so broken and so brought down as this!
In the distress that she caused me I forgot the years that had
passed, and the change they had made in our position towards one
another. I moved my chair close to her, and picked up her
handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her hands from her face
gently. "Don't cry, my love," I said, and dried the tears that
were gathering in her eyes with my own hand, as if she had been
the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago.
It was the best way I could have taken to compose her. She laid
her head on my shoulder, and smiled faintly through her tears.
"I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she said artlessly. "I
have not been well--I have felt sadly weak and nervous lately, and
I often cry without reason when I am alone. I am better now--I
can answer you as I ought, Mr. Gilmore, I can indeed."
"No, no, my dear," I replied, "we will consider the subject as
done with for the present.
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