Angel, however, saw her light summer gown, and he spoke; his low tones reaching her, though he was some distance off.
“What makes you draw off in that way, Tess?” said he. “Are you afraid?”
“Oh no, sir—not of outdoor things; especially just now when the apple-blooth is falling, and everything is so green.”
“But you have your indoor fears—eh?”
“Well—yes, sir.”
“What of?”
“I couldn’t quite say.”
“The milk turning sour?”
“No.”
“Life in general?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah—so have I, very often. This hobble of being alive is rather serious, don’t you think so?”
“It is—now you put it that way.”
“All the same, I shouldn’t have expected a young girl like you to see it so just yet. How is it you do?”
She maintained a hesitating silence.
“Come, Tess, tell me in confidence.”
She thought that he meant what were the aspects of things to her, and replied shyly—