mine. And as for coming back,
when Mistress Dorothy has found her a husband whom she can respect--we
may perhaps consider it."

He sat very silent for a while after that; and I know now, though I did
not know then, what was the design he was considering--at least I
suppose it was then that he saw it clear before him. At the time I
thought he was giving his attention to myself; and I wondered a little
that he did not press me again to stay, though I would not have done so.

It was a very desolate morning when I awakened next day, and knew what
had happened, and that I must go away again from the house I had learned
so much to love; but there was no help for it; and, as I put on my
clothes, I put on my pride with them; and came down very cold and
haughty to get my "morning" as we called it, in the dining-room before
riding; and there in the dining-room was my Cousin Dolly, whom I had
thought to be in her chamber, as the door was shut when I came past it.

We bade one another good morning very courteously indeed; but we gave no
other salute to one another. She knew last night that I was going, as my
Cousin Tom had told her maid to tell her; and I was surprised that she
was there. Presently I had an explanation of it.

"Cousin Roger," said she, "I was very angry last night; and I wished to
tell you I was sorry for that, and for the hard words I used, before you
went away."

I bowed my head very dignifiedly.

"And I, too," I said, "must ask your pardon for so taking you by
surprise. I thought--" and then I ceased.

She had looked a little white and tired, I thought; but she flushed
again with anger when I said that.

"You thought it would be no surprise," she said.

"I did not say so, Cousin," said I. "You have no right to interpret--"

"But you thought it."

I drank my ale.

"Oh! what you must think of me!" she cried in a sudden passion; and ran
out of the room.

* * * * *

I think that was the most disconsolate journey I have ever taken. It was
a cold morning, with a fine rain falling: my man James was disconsolate
too (and I remembered the dairy-maid, when I saw it), and I was leaving
the one place I had begun to think of as my home, and her who had so
much made it home to me. I had not even seen her again before I went;
and our last words had been of anger; and of that chopping kind of
argument that satisfies no one.

I tried to distract myself with other thoughts--of wha