I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door where John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certain embarrassment.

      “What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any way?”

      “Indeed, no.”

      “Why did he go away?”

      But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put, involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it; while, at the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises or prevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and very frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly:

      “I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer telling you himself.”

      “As he pleases,” returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in her usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods and about Norton Bury. I answered them freely — my only reservation being, that I took care not to give any information concerning ourselves.

      Soon afterwards, as John did not return, I took leave of her, and went to our own parlour.

      He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who met him on the common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return till dinner-time. Dinner-time came, but I had to dine alone. It was the first time I ever knew him break even such a trivial promise. My heart misgave me — I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search of him, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlour. Better, when he did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth and — me.

      Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years better than anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? Fate had taken the sceptre out of my hands — I was utterly powerless; I could neither give him comfort nor save him pain any more.

      What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has felt likewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over a brother, many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Let those who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot; let those who win hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt the new bond cruelly in the face of the old.

      Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as right to say, I will no more allude to the subject.

      In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach-and-four, resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door; I knew it well, and so did all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady Caroline’s own maid — so I heard afterwards — sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline’s own black-eyed Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concluded was for Miss March.

      I was glad that John was not at home; glad that the coach, with all its fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before John came in.

      He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long fingers stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. At first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen shining ever so far.

      “What a bright blaze! — Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope? — Tea — yes, that’s far better; I have had such a long walk, and am so tired.”

      The words were cheerful, so was the tone. TOO cheerful — oh, by far! The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend’s heart, like the piping of soldiers as they go away back from a newly-filled grave.

      “Where have you been, John?”

      “All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there — such expansive views. As Mrs. Tod informed 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