apa will look forward so to the
winter now."

"And so shall I."

"But you must come for longer then;--you won't go away at the end of
a week? Say that you won't."

"I'll see about it. I can't tell quite yet. You'll write me a line to
say when the shed is finished, won't you?"

"That I will, and I'll tell you how Bessy goes on." Bessy was the
cow. "I will be so very fond of her. She'll come to me for apples
already."

Belton thought that he would go to her, wherever she might be, even
if he were to get no apples. "It's all cupboard love with them," he
said. "I'll tell you what I'll do;--when I come, I'll bring you a dog
that will follow you without thinking of apples." Then the gig was
heard on the gravel before the door, and Belton was forced to go. For
a moment he reflected whether, as her cousin, it was not his duty to
kiss her. It was a matter as to which he had doubt,--as is the case
with many male cousins; but ultimately he resolved that if he kissed
her at all he would not kiss her in that light, and so he again
refrained. "Good-bye," he said, putting out his great hand to her.

"Good-bye, Will, and God bless you." I almost think he might have
kissed her, asking himself no questions as to the light in which it
was done.

As he turned from her he saw the tears in her eyes; and as he sat in
the gig, thinking of them, other tears came into his own. By heaven,
he would have her yet! He was a man who had not read much of romance.
To him all the imagined mysteries of passion had not been made common
by the perusal of legions of love stories;--but still he knew enough
of the game to be aware that women had been won in spite, as it were,
of their own teeth. He knew that he could not now run away with her,
taking her off by force; but still he might conquer her will by his
own. As he remembered the tears in her eyes, and the tone of her
voice, and the pressure of her hand, and the gratitude that had
become tender in its expression, he could not but think that he would
be wise to love her still. Wise or foolish, he did love her still;
and it should not be owing to fault of his if she did not become his
wife. As he drove along he saw little of the Quantock hills, little
of the rich Somersetshire pastures, little of the early beauty of the
August morning. He saw nothing but her eyes, moistened with bright
tears, and before he reached Taunton he had rebuked himself with many
revilings in that he had parted from her a