"Why, Ida," he said in amaze, "what are you doing here, crying too?"
"I'm not crying," she said, with a sob; "it's the rain that has made
my face wet."
Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it.
"What is it, dear, what is it?" he said in great distress, for the
sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond
himself. Indeed he would have been no man if it had not.
She tried to answer, but she could not, and in another minute, to tell
the honest truth, she had exchanged the gate-post for Harold's broad
shoulder, and was finishing her "cry" there.
Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more especially if she
happens to be weeping on your shoulder) is a very trying thing. It is
trying even if you do not happen to be in love with her at all. But if
you are in love with her, however little, it is dreadful; whereas, if,
as in the present case, you happen to worship her, more, perhaps, than
it is good to worship any fallible human creature, then the sight is
positively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved in the present
instance. The Colonel could not bear it, but lifting her head from his
shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and again.
"What is it, darling?" he said, "what is the matter?"
"Leave go of me and I will tell you," she answered.
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