March is asleep she'll come and
sit for half an hour, talking to Tod and me; and playing with the
baby--"

Here, probably at sound of its name, the individual alluded to set up,
from its cradle in the corner, such a terrific squall, that we young
men beat a precipitate retreat.

"So, John, your grey gown is discovered at last. She's young,
certainly--but not exactly a beauty."

"I never said she was."

"A pleasant person, though; hearty, cheerful-looking, and strong. I
can easily imagine her trotting over the common with her basket of
eggs--chatting to the old woman, and scolding the naughty boy."

"Don't make fun of her. She must have a hard life with her old father."

Of course, seeing him take it up so seriously, I jested no more.

"By-the-by, did not the father's name strike you? MARCH--suppose it
should turn out to be the very Mr. March you pulled out of Severn five
years ago. What a romantic conjuncture of circumstances?"

"Nonsense," said John, quickly--more quickly than he usually spoke to
me; then came back to wish me a kind goodbye. "Take care of yourself,
old fellow. It will be nightfall before I am back from Norton Bury."

I watched him mount, and ride slowly down the bit of common--turning
once to look back at Rose Cottage, ere he finally disappeared between
the chestnut trees: a goodly sight--for he was an admirable horseman.

When he was gone, I, glancing lazily up at Mr. March's window, saw a
hand, and I fancied a white-furred wrist, pulling down the blind. It
amused me to think Miss March might possibly have been watching him
likewise.

I spent the whole long day alone in the cottage parlour, chiefly
meditating; though more than once friendly Mrs. Tod broke in upon my
solitude. She treated me in a motherly, free-and-easy way: not half
so deferentially as she treated John Halifax.

The sun had gone down over Nunnely Hill, behind the four tall Italian
poplars, which stood on the border of our bit of wilderness--three
together and one apart. They were our landmarks--and skymarks too--for
the first sunbeam coming across the common struck their tops of a
morning, and the broad western glimmer showed their forms distinctly
until far in the night. They were just near enough for me to hear
their faint rustling in windy weather; on calm days they stood up
straight against the sky, like memorial columns. They were friends of
mine--those four poplars; sometimes they almost seemed alive