She looked nervous, awkward, abashed, and as if for that moment she was a big girl of sixteen appealing to her and overwhelmed with queer feelings, and yet the depths of her eyes held a kind of trembling, ecstatic light.

She came and stood before her, holding the trembling roses as if she had been called up for confession.
"I--I mustn't," she half whispered.

The corners of her lips drooped and quivered, and her voice was so low that Hester could scarcely hear it.
But she started and half sat up.
"You _mustn't_ ?" she gasped; yes, really it was gasped.
Emily's hand trembled so that the roses began to fall one by one, scattering a rain of petals as they dropped.
"I mustn't," she repeated, low and shakily.

"I had--reason .-- I went to town to see--somebody.

I saw Sir Samuel Brent, and he told me I must not.