Ralph walked along, ruminating in gloomy mood as to what was to be done;
how he could best extricate himself from the miserable relation in which
he had placed himself by giving way to impulse. Almost before he was
aware, a little hand stole within his folded arms, and Ellinor's sweet
sad eyes looked into his.
"I have put papa down for an hour's rest before dinner," said she. "His
head seems to ache terribly."
Ralph was silent and unsympathising, trying to nerve himself up to be
disagreeable, but finding it difficult in the face of such sweet trust.
"Do you remember our conversation last autumn, Ellinor?" he began at
length.
Her head sunk. They were near a garden-seat, and she quietly sat down,
without speaking.
"About some disgrace which you then fancied hung over you?" No answer.
"Does it still hang over you?"
"Yes!" she whispered, with a heavy sigh.
"And your father knows this, of course?"
"Yes!" again, in the same tone; and then silence.
"I think it is doing him harm," at length Ralph went on, decidedly.
"I am afraid it is," she said, in a low tone.
"I wish you would tell me what it is," he said, a little impatiently. "I
might be able to help you about it."
"No! you could not," replied Ellinor. "I was sorry to my very heart to
tell you what I did; I did not want help; all that is past.
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