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 power to influence it in any way.

      We came once more upon the old lady, watching the skaters. She again spoke to John, and looked at me with her keen, kind, blue eyes.

      “I think I know who your friend is, though you do not introduce him.” (John hastily performed that ceremony.) “Tom, and I” (how funny to hear her call our old bachelor doctor, “Tom!”) “were wondering what had become of you, Mr. Halifax. Are you stronger than you were in London?”

      “Was he ill in London, madam?”

      “No, indeed, Phineas! Or only enough to win for me Dr. and Mrs. Jessop’s great kindness.”

      “Which you have never come to thank us for. Never crossed our door-sill since we returned home! Does not your conscience sting you for your ingratitude?”

      He coloured deeply.

      “Indeed, Mrs. Jessop, it was not ingratitude.”

      “I know it; I believe it,” she answered, with much kindness. “Tell me what it was?”

      He hesitated.

      “You ought to believe the warm interest we both take in you. Tell me the plain truth.”

      “I will. It is that your kindness to me in London was no reason for my intruding on you at Norton Bury. It might not be agreeable for you and Dr. Jessop to have my acquaintance here. I am a tradesman.”

      The little old lady’s eyes brightened into something beyond mere kindness as she looked at him.

      “Mr. Halifax, I thank you for that ‘plain truth.’ Truth is always best. Now for mine. I had heard you were a tradesman; I found out for myself that you were a gentleman. I do not think the two facts incompatible, nor does my husband. We shall be happy to see you at our house at all times and under all circumstances.”

      She offered him her hand. John bowed over it in silence, but it was long since I had seen him look more pleased.

      “Well, then, suppose you come this evening, both of you?”

      We assented; and on her further invitation John and I and the little old lady walked on together.

      I could not help watching Mrs. Jessop with some amusement. Norton Bury said she had been a poor governess all her days; but that hard life had left no shadow on the cheerful sunset of her existence now. It was a frank, bright, happy face, in spite of its wrinkles, and its somewhat hard Welsh features. And it was pleasant to hear her talk, even though she talked a good deal, and in a decidedly Welsh accent. Sometimes a tone or two reminded me slightly of — Ay, it was easy to guess why John evidently liked the old lady.

      “I know this road well, Mr. Halifax. Once I spent a summer here, with an old pupil, now grown up. I am going today to inquire about her at the Mythe House. The Brithwoods came home yesterday.”

      I was afraid to look at John. Even to me the news was startling. How I blessed Mrs. Jessop’s innocent garrulousness.

      “I hope they will remain here some time. I have a special interest in their stay. Not on Lady Caroline’s account, though. She patronizes me very kindly; but I doubt if she ever forgets — what Tom says I am rather too proud of remembering — that I was the poor governess, Jane Cardigan.”

      “Jane Cardigan!” I exclaimed.

      “What, Mr. Fletcher, you know my name! And really, now I think of it, I believe I have heard yours. Not from Tom, either. It couldn’t possibly be-Yes! it certainly was — How strange! Did you ever hear tell of a Miss Ursula March?”

      The live crimson rushed madly over John’s face. Mrs. Jessop saw it; she could not but see. At first she looked astounded, then exceedingly grave.

      I replied, “that we had had the honour of meeting Miss March last summer at Enderley.”

      “Yes,” the old lady continued, somewhat formally. “Now I recollect, Miss March told me of the circumstance; of two gentlemen there, who were very kind to her when her father died; a Mr. Fletcher and his friend — was that Mr. Halifax?”

      “It was,” I answered: for John was speechless. Alas! I saw at once that all my hopes for him, all the design of my long silence on this subject, had been in vain. No, he had not