"You've always thought me too old for you, Hilda,--oh, of course you've
never said just that,--and here this fellow is not more than eight years
younger than I. I've always felt that if I could get out of my old case
I might win you yet. It's a fine, brave youth I carry inside me, only
he'll never be seen."
"Nonsense, Mac. That has nothing to do with it. It's because you seem
too close to me, too much my own kind. It would be like marrying Cousin
Mike, almost. I really tried to care as you wanted me to, away back in
the beginning."
"Well, here we are, turning out of the Square. You are not angry with
me, Hilda? Thank you for this walk, my dear. Go in and get dry things on
at once. You'll be having a great night to-morrow."
She put out her hand. "Thank you, Mac, for everything. Good-night."
MacConnell trudged off through the fog, and she went slowly upstairs.
Her slippers and dressing gown were waiting for her before the fire. "I
shall certainly see him in New York. He will see by the papers that we
are coming. Perhaps he knows it already," Hilda kept thinking as she
undressed. "Perhaps he will be at the dock. No, scarcely that; but I may
meet him in the street even before he comes to see me." Marie placed
the tea-table by the fire and brought Hilda her letters. She looked them
over, and started as she came to one in a handwriting that she did not
often see; Alexander had written to her only twice before, and he did
not allow her to write to him at all.
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