formed me, quoting some local ballad, which she said was
written by an uncle of hers:

"'There you may spy
Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.'

Remarkable fact, isn't it?"

Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly talking. It
was enough to make one weep.

After tea I insisted on his taking my arm-chair; saying, that after
such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold.

"Not the least--quite the contrary--feel my hand." It was burning.
"But I am tired--thoroughly tired."

He leaned back and shut his eyes. Oh, the utter weariness of body and
soul that was written on his face!

"Why did you go out alone? John, you know that you have always me."

He looked up, smiling. But the momentary brightness passed. Alas! I
was not enough to make him happy now.

We sat silent. I knew he would speak to me in time; but the gates of
his heart were close locked. It seemed as if he dared not open them,
lest the flood should burst forth and overwhelm us.

At nine o'clock Mrs. Tod came in with supper. She had always something
or other to say, especially since the late events had drawn the whole
household of Rose Cottage so closely together; now, she was brim-full
of news.

She had been all that evening packing up for poor dear Miss March;
though why she should call her "poor," truly, she didn't know. Who
would have thought Mr. March had such grand relations? Had we seen
Lady Caroline Brithwood's coach that came that day? Such a beautiful
coach it was!--sent on purpose for Miss March--only she wouldn't go.
"But now she has made up her mind, poor dear. She is leaving
to-morrow."

When John heard this he was helping Mrs. Tod, as usual, to fasten the
heavy shutters. He stood, with his hand on the bolt, motionless, till
the good woman was gone. Then he staggered to the mantelpiece, and
leaned on it with both his elbows, his hands covering his face.

But there was no disguise now--no attempt to make it. A young man's
first love--not first fancy, but first love--in all its passion,
desperation, and pain--had come to him, as it comes to all. I saw him
writhing under it--saw, and could not help him. The next few silent
minutes were very bitter to us both.

Then I said gently, "David!"

"Well?"

"I thought things were so."

"Yes."

"Suppose you were to talk to me a little--it might do you good."

"Another time. Let me go out--out into the air; I