No--you have not
many friends."
"I have none, but you and the master. The men would kill me if they
dared."
Marietta started a little, remembering how the workmen had looked at him
in the morning, when he came out.
"You need not be afraid," he added, seeing her movement. "They will not
touch me."
"Does my father know what your trouble is?" asked Marietta suddenly.
"No! That is--I have no trouble, I assure you. I am of a melancholy
nature."
"I am glad it has nothing to do with the secrets," said the young girl,
quietly ignoring the last part of his speech. "If it had, I could not
help you at all. Could I?"
That morning it had seemed an easy thing to wait even two years before
giving him a sign, before dropping in his path the rose which she would
not ask of him again. The minutes seemed years now. For she knew well
enough what his trouble was, since yesterday; he loved her, and he
thought it infinitely impossible, in his modesty, that she should ever
stoop to him. After she had spoken, she looked at him with half-closed
eyes for a while, but he stared stonily at the trunk of the tree beside
his hand. Gradually, as she gazed, her lids opened wider, and the
morning sunlight sparkled in the deep blue, and her fresh lips parted.
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