Page:Joan, the curate.djvu/253

Rh "There was naught of great import in my talk with her," said he, quickly. He was trembling so much that his sword rattled at his side, and his voice was as hoarse as a raven's. "But 'tis true I have something of great import to me on my mind, and I cannot but think, Miss Joan, you must know what it is!"

"Indeed, sir, I cannot guess your thoughts!" said Joan, though the heightened color in her cheeks belied her words.

"Can you not imagine what I feel—what I could not—dared not, say last night? Oh, you do, you must, I think! Sure a man cannot feel what I feel for you without its getting from his heart into his eyes! Don't you know I love you, Joan?"

The change came about in the space of a second. When the last hurried words, husky, tremulous, half whispered, came bursting from his lips, Joan shivered, gave him one glance, and had betrayed herself before she was aware.

"You—you care for Ann!" she faltered between two long-drawn breaths.

"Pshaw! Not I! I care for Joan. I care for Joan, only Joan!"