a fact of which I believe he was blissfully
unconscious. Perhaps experience had made him
incredulous as to the indifference any young
lady might feel to his special favour; or it might
have been conceit; I will not pretend to decide
which. But when he drew near me, murmuring
(shall I say lisping?), "Oh, do come; pray
take pity on us—we have missed you so dreadfully,"
I am sure he thought he did enough to
make any reasonable young woman desire to
leave Hillsbro' on the instant.

But I did not want to leave Hillsbro'. I felt
a pang of keen pain at the very suggestion, yet
at the same moment an idea came into my mind
that it might be a good thing that I should
leave it for a time. I hesitated, asked Grace
when she intended returning to London, and,
while we were parleying about the matter,
Mopsie returned. During the remainder of the
visit the little girl listened earnestly to
everything we said on the subject, and when I
parted from my friends at the gate, leaving it
undecided whether I should go with them to
London or not, Mopsie burst into tears and
clung to my neck.

"Do not go with them," she said; "they
cannot love you as we do."

"Mopsie, my pet," I said, "don't be a little
goose. Neither do I love them as I love you.
If I go away for a time I will be sure to come
back."

Mopsie whispered her fears to Jane, and all
that evening Jane kept aloof from me. My
head ached with trying to think of what I
ought to do, and I sat alone by the schoolroom
hearth in the firelight considering my difficulties,
fighting against my wishes, and endeavouring
in vain to convince myself that I had no wishes
at all. Mopsie came in and lay down at my
feet, with her face rolled up in my gown; and
so busy was I that I did not know she was
crying. John came in and found her out. He
took her on his knee and stroked her as if she
had been a kitten. Mopsie would not be
comforted. I felt guilty, and said nothing. John
looked from her to me, wondering. At last
Mopsie's news came out.

"Margery's grand London friends have been
here, and they want to take her away."

"What grand London friends?" asked John,
looking at me, but talking to her.

"Oh, Mr. and Miss Tyrrell, a pretty lady
with long feathers and ringlets, and flounces on
her dress, and a handsome gentleman who said
they had missed Margery dreadfully. And
Margery is thinking of going back to them."

John suddenly stopped stroking her, and sat
quite still. I felt him looking at me earnestly,
and at last I had to look up, which I did
smiling, and saying, "I did not know Mopsie
cared so much about me."

Then John kissed the little girl, and said,
"Go down-stairs to Jane, dear. I have
something particular to say to Margery."

I was completely taken by surprise. He
closed the door upon Mopsie, and came back
and reseated himself at the fire. He sat on one
side of the fireplace, and I at the other, and the
flames danced between us. He shaded his face
with his hand, and looked across at me; and I
watched intently a great tree falling in the
depths of a burning forest among the embers.

"Is this true, Margery," said John, "that
you are going to leave us, and return to
London?"

"I am thinking of it," I said, pleasantly.

"I thought—I had hoped you were happy
with us," he said.

"Yes," I said, "I have been very happy,
but I think I want a little change."

How my heart ached with the effort of uttering
that untruth! I knew that I wanted no
change.

"I do not wonder at it," he said, after a
pause. "We have made a slave of you. You
are tired of it, and you are going away."

He said this bitterly and sorrowfully, shading
his eyes still more with his hand.

"No, no," I said, "you must not say that.
I never was so happy in my life as I have been
here."

I spoke more eagerly than I meant to do, and
my voice broke a little in spite of me. John
left his seat and bent down beside me, so that
he could see my face, which could not escape
him.

"Margery," said he, "I have seen that you
have made yourself happy, and I have been
sometimes wild enough to hope that you would
be content to spend your life amongst us.
When you came first I feared to love you too
well, but your sweet face and your sweet ways
have been too much for me. It may be
ungenerous in me to speak, seeing that I only
have to offer you a true love, truer maybe than
you will meet with in the gay world, a tarnished
name, and a very humble home. I have debts
to pay, and a soil to wash off my name; but
still, Margery, will you be my wife? With
your love nothing will be dark or difficult to
me."

It was very hard. My heart was brimming
over with a joyous reply to this appeal; but
Mrs. Hollingford's uneasy face was vividly
before my eyes all the time, and I could only
say, distressedly, "It cannot be, John. It
cannot, cannot be."

"Why?" he asked, almost sternly, and he
rose up and stood above me. "Tell me that
you cannot love me—tell me you would
rather save yourself for more honour, more
prosperity, and I will never trouble you again.
Were I differently circumstanced I might plead,
but I could not live to see you discontented,
ashamed. Why can it not be, Margery?"

I clasped my hands in my lap, and tried to
speak firmly. "For a reason that I cannot
give to you, John. Let us be good friends."

"Friends!" he echoed, bitterly. "Well! I
was wrong to think of my own happiness before
your worldly advantage. Good-bye, Margery.
I am going to London in the morning. Perhaps
you may be gone before I come back."

And with this he abruptly walked out of the
room. But afterwards I sat there an hour,
wondering if what had passed so quickly were