She was thrilling through with mortification. She had been bold, and she
had disgusted his fastidious taste, and she had not meant it. She was so
grateful, and she loved him so dearly, but she never would offend in
that way again.
Mr. Ingelow offered her his arm, but she drew back.
"I will follow you," she said, in a low voice, shrinking painfully into
herself.
He said no more, but led the way. Mrs. Sharpe went after, Miss Dane
last. No sound broke the stillness of the house. They might have been in
their beds for all the noise they made.
"I hope it's all right," Mrs. Sharpe said, with a very uneasy face;
"but I feel scared."
"You needn't, then," answered Mr. Ingelow; "they're safe enough. They'll
be all alive in two or three hours from now, and will never know what
ailed them. Save your sympathy, Susan, for time of need."
They went down-stairs, out-of-doors, into the cool, bright moonlight.
Mollie Dane drew a long, long breath of unspeakable thankfulness as she
breathed the fresh, free air once more.
"Thank Heaven," she thought, "and--Hugh Ingelow!"
They reached the garden gate; it stood wide; they passed out, and the
artist closed it securely after him.
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