He was vexed,
too; here, he knew from the mystery put on, was one of those cases
of feminine trouble, real or unreal, which he most disliked to
meddle with.
"Will you sit down?" he said, as kindly as he could, and the girl
obeyed.
"I thought they would let me wait. I didn't mean to interrupt you,"
she began, in a voice singularly gentle and unaffected.
"Oh, no matter!" cried Sewell. "I'm very glad to see you,"
"I thought you could help me. I'm in great trouble--doubt--"
The voice was almost childlike in its appealing innocence. Sewell
sat down opposite the girl and bent sympathetically forward. "Well?"
She waited a moment. Then, "I don't know how to begin," she said
hoarsely, and stopped again.
Sewell was touched. He forgot Lemuel; he forgot everything but the
heartache which he divined before him, and his Christ-derived
office, his holy privilege, of helping any in want of comfort or
guidance. "Perhaps," he said, in his loveliest way,--the way that
had won his wife's heart, and that still provoked her severest
criticism for its insincerity; it was so purely impersonal,--
"perhaps that isn't necessary, if you mean beginning at the
beginning. If you've any trouble that you think I can advise you in,
perhaps it's better for both of us that I shouldn't know very much
of it."
"Yes?" murmured the girl questioningly.
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