riches and my heart-bareness unnerves me, and my lips quiver, and slow, painful tears fill my eyes.
"You poor little white blossom," he says, casting himself down on the seat beside me. "Nell, Nell! are you fretting after that Silverbridge man!"
He is looking into my face with a passion of eagerness that startles me, still thinking of her, I suppose.
"I will be good," I say, as two big tears fall with a heavy splash on my clasped hands. "Do not be afraid, I am not going to cry any more. . . . I will listen to you patiently, if you would like to have a comfortable talk about her."
"I shall keep you to your word presently," he says; "meanwhile you have not answered my question."
"I will not," I answer with spirit. (How dare he torment me in this way?)
"Will you make me a promise then?"
"Tell me what it is first."
"I cannot. Will you promise?"
There is nothing more to tell—he knows about George; is it worth while to bandy words about a trifle? And I am longing to get away.
"I promise," I say, listlessly.
"Then, when we are both at Silverbridge—for I have a fancy for hearing you tell me where I met you first, in the field of rye—you will tell me the name of the man you love."
I sit silent, pale as death. Is it kind, or manly, or fair of him to trap me thus?
"I break my promise," I say, firmly, "although I never broke one before."
"It is too late now," he says; "you are bound. You never failed in truth yet, Nell; are you going to begin now?"
But I do not answer.
