or simple astonishment; perhaps a mingling of
all--then her eyelids fell. She silently offered her hand, first to me
and then to John. Whether she meant it as friendliness, or as a mere
ceremony of adieu, I cannot tell. John took it as the latter, and rose.

His hand was on the door--but he could not go.

"Miss March," he said, "perhaps I may never see you again--at least,
never as now. Let me look once more at that wrist which was hurt."

Her left arm was hanging over the sofa--the scar being visible enough.
John took the hand, and held it firmly.

"Poor little hand--blessed little hand! May God bless it evermore."

Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been--a
kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be. Surely she
must have felt it--known it.

A moment afterward, he was gone.

That day Miss March departed, and we remained at Enderley alone.

CHAPTER XVI

It was winter-time. All the summer-days at Enderley were gone, "like a
dream when one awaketh." Of her who had been the beautiful centre of
the dream we had never heard nor spoken since.

John and I were walking together along the road towards the Mythe; we
could just see the frosty sunset reflected on the windows of the Mythe
House, now closed for months, the family being away. The meadows
alongside, where the Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a popular
skating-ground: and the road was alive with lookers-on of every class.
All Norton Bury seemed abroad; and half Norton Bury exchanged
salutations with my companion, till I was amused to notice how large
John's acquaintance had grown.

Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, as prim and
neat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a happy matron. I saw at
once who it was--Mrs. Jessop, our good doctor's new wife, and old love:
whom he had lately brought home, to the great amazement and curiosity
of Norton Bury.

"She seems to like you very much," I said; as, after a cordial
greeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on.

"They were both very kind to me in London, last month, as I think I
told you."

"Ay!" It was one of the few things he had mentioned about that same
London journey, for he had grown into a painful habit of silence now.
Yet I dreaded to break it, lest any wounds rankling beneath might
thereby be caused to smart once more. And our love to one another was
too faithful for a little reserve to have powe