The light footstep moved timidly, first to one recess, and then to
another; then to the third, where he sat in the shade. Poor Margery
stood before him.
She looked worn and weary, and her little shoes and the skirts of her
dress were covered with dust. The weather was sultry, the sun being
already high and powerful, and rain had not fallen for weeks. The
Baron, who walked little, had thought nothing of the effects of this
heat and drought in inducing fatigue. A distance which had been but
a reasonable exercise on a foggy morning was a drag for Margery now.
She was out of breath; and anxiety, even unhappiness was written on
her everywhere.
He rose to his feet, and took her hand. He was vexed with himself at
sight of her. 'My dear little girl!' he said. 'You are tired--you
should not have come.'
'You sent for me, sir; and I was afraid you were ill; and my promise
to you was sacred.'
He bent over her, looking upon her downcast face, and still holding
her hand; then he dropped it, and took a pace or two backwards.
'It was a whim, nothing more,' he said, sadly. 'I wanted to see my
little friend, to express good wishes--and to present her with this.'
He held forward a small morocco case, and showed her how to open it,
disclosing a pretty locket, set with pearls. 'It is intended as a
wedding present,' he continued.
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