"
"Why, child, what is the matter? I heard you was sick, but did not
s'pose 'twas anything like this. You are paler than a ghost," Mrs.
Brown exclaimed as she tried to unfasten Lucy's hood and cloak and
lead her to the fire.
But Lucy was not cold, she said. She would rather go at once to
Arthur's room. Mrs. Brown made no objection, though she wondered if
the girl was crazy as she went back to her fowls and Christmas
pudding, leaving Lucy to find her way alone to Arthur's study, which
looked so like its owner, with his dressing-gown across the lounge,
just where he had thrown it, his slippers under the table and his
arm-chair standing near the table, where he sat when he asked Lucy to
be his wife, and where she now sat down, panting for breath and gazing
dreamily around with the look of a frightened bird when seeking for
some avenue of escape from an appalling danger. There was no escape,
and, with a moan, she laid her head upon the table and prayed that
Arthur might come quickly while she had sense and strength to tell
him. She heard his step at last, and rose up to meet him, smiling a
little at his sudden start when he saw her there.
"It's only I," she said, shedding back the clustering curls from her
pallid face, and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep from
falling.
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