would go to
live in Boston in a great big house, and he'd be a great man, and people
would talk about him, and she should see his name in the papers, but he
never would come to Coventry any more! And he'd acted as if he did love
her, too!--that was men's way,--heartless things! If John had a good
time, what did he care if Lizzy did grow into a gray-haired, puckered-up
old maid, like Miss Case, with nobody to love her, or take care of her,
or ask about her, or--or--kiss her?--The climax was too much for Lizzy;
great big tears ran down on the arm of the stuffed chair, and she
would have sobbed out loud, only Chloe opened the door, to put up the
tea-things, I suppose, and Lizzy wouldn't cry before her. But, for all
that, she didn't hear Chloe come to the fireplace; she only felt her sit
down in the big chair, and, simultaneously, a pair of strong arms lifted
Miss Lizzy on to John Boynton's knee, and held her there. It wasn't
Chloe.

I declare, one gets out of patience with these men! they do astonish a
person so sometimes, one doesn't know what to do or say. Lizzy had been
thinking to herself, not two minutes ago, with what cool and smiling
reserve she should meet John Boynton, how dignified and kindly distant
she would be to him,--and now,--well! it was so sudden,--and then, as
I said before, these men do get round one so,--if you happen to love
them.--Lizzy forgot, I suppose; at any rate, she wasn't dignified, or
reserved, or proper, or anything of the kind, for she just hid her
pretty head on his square shoulder, and said, "Oh, John!"--"slowly, and
nothing more,"--as Mr. Tennyson remarks about cutting Iphigenia's head
off with a sharp knife.

I don't know that John talked much, either. I rather think Lizzy got
over the climax that had troubled her a little while ago. Presently,
she raised her head and gathered up her hair that had fallen down, and
became painfully aware that she had on only a blue calico! John never
knew it; he knew somebody had a very sweet face, full of cloudy blushes
and sunshiny smiles, and, not being a Pre-Raphaelite, the foreground was
of no consequence to him.

So, after a time, Lizzy slipped down to her cricket again, still leaning
on the arm--of the chair,--and John expounded to her the excellent
reason that had delayed his coming home. He had been offered a large
salary to take the head of a public school in Boston, and those two
days had been devoted to arranging the affair; he had satisf