homeward journey
that evening, so that he had no time to spare.

Mary, was at home, however, so March felt a little consoled, and,
seating himself in his wonted place beside the fire, he said--

"When will Dick be home, Mary?"

"Me no can know 'xactly. To-morray hims say, perhaps."

"Then it's all up," sighed March, leaning recklessly back against the
wall; "all up! I'm off to-night, so I'll not be able to spend the
winter with you after all."

Had Mary burst into tears on hearing this, March would have felt
satisfied. Had she groaned or sobbed, or even sighed, he would have
experienced some degree of relief to his annoyed and disappointed
spirit, but when Mary, instead of any such demonstration, hung down her
head so that the heavy masses of her soft brown hair hid her pretty face
and said in a tone which March fancied was not very genuine, "What a
pity!" he became extremely exasperated, and deemed himself ill-used.

During the half-hour that succeeded he endeavoured to converse in a
pleasant tone of voice, but without success. At last he rose to go.

"Must you go 'way dis night?" said Mary with a look of concern.

"Ay, Mary, an' it's not much matter, for ye don't seem to care."

The girl looked at him reproachfully, "You is not please' with me,
March--why?"

The question puzzled the youth. He certainly was displeased, but he
could not make up his mind to say that he was so because Mary had not
fallen into a state of violent grief at the prospect of a separation.
But the anxious gaze of Mary's truthful blue eyes was too much for him--
he suddenly grasped both her hands, and, kissing her forehead, said--

"Mary dear, I'm not displeased. I'm only sorry, and sad, and annoyed,
and miserable--very miserable--I can scarcely tell why. I suppose I'm
not well, or I'm cross, or something or other. But this I know, Mary,
Dick has invited me to come back to see him next year, and I certainly
shall come if life and limb hold out till then."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and as she smiled through them, March,
being very near her face, beheld in each eye an excessively miniature
portrait of himself gazing out at him lovingly.

"Perhaps!" faltered Mary, "you no want for come when it be nixt year."

Poor March was overwhelmed again, absolutely disgusted, that _she_ could
entertain a doubt upon that point!

"We shall see," he cried with a sudden impulse, pressing his lips again
to her forehead. "May the Grea