way in which he left her, after all. Yet,
sometimes he reproached her in his thoughts,
until he reflected that he had never told her
that he loved her, and that it was not natural
for her to show any love for him until he had.
So on the eve of the day that was fixed
for her departure, he resolved to speak to
her.

He sat at the door of the cottage with her
in the evening, basket-making, while she was
engaged in needlework. He had been talking
with her of old times; of their first meeting
on the island; of their walks together in the
Park; all which she remembered. He came
nearer to the present, and spoke of the night
when he first came to live upon the Ayte,
and the many happy days they had spent
together since. Then he sat silent for awhile.
He had still a lingering hope that Annie
would speak of her departure, and by some
word or look show that she was grieved to
quit her old companion. Yet he feared to
prompt it by any remark of his own,—at
first, lest she should be driven to say more
than her heart dictated, and afterwards, from
a secret fear that something she might say, in
answer, would destroy his hopes for ever.
He had no thought of the work before him,
though he bent the twigs around the upright
wands, passing his fingers swiftly to and fro,
and only now and then, when he stooped to
pick up another twig, glancing upward at
Annie. She also was bent over her work, and
did not look towards him once. A sudden
hope arose within him,—a fancy that, perhaps,
she, too, thought of their separation, and,
wondering at his silence, waited also, hoping
that he would speak. He remembered how
happy she had always seemed with him in all
their summer rambles,—how, through many
a long summer evening, while they were yet
children, he had sat with her, upon that very
threshold, talking of their childish projects,
till she had laid her hand upon his shoulder,
telling him how happy she should be to live
for ever with him there. And even now, he
thought, the same impulse might move her,
if she were not now become a woman, with
a woman's natural fear of seeming bold and
forward. It was not vanity that made him
think thus. But for his fear of the result, he
would have risen and held her by the hand,
as he used to do in the old times, and told her
frankly of his love. Yet he looked down
again at his work, fearing to glance towards
her, though fancying still that she might be
thinking of him. It was getting almost too
dark for working. The blackbird had fallen
asleep in his wicker cage, hung out at the
door to let him enjoy the summer day; and
there was not a sound through all the island,
though far away upon the river, hidden by
the trees, they could hear voices from some
barge or pleasure-boat. Annie spoke at
length, and said she could not see the stitches
any longer, and must go in-doors.

"You are very busy this evening, Annie."

"Yes. You see, I go away to-morrow,
and have many things to make up before
I go."

"I thought you had fallen asleep," replied
her companion, " although your needle went in
and out as briskly as ever. You have not
said a word for nearly an hour."

"I have been thinking," said she, laying
her work aside, " of those old times of which
we had been talking. And you, why have
you been so quiet?"

"I also was thinking of the past, Annie,"
he replied, "and wondering whether we
should always be such good friends as we
have been. Many who grow up from infancy
together are parted afterwards, and think of
one another no more. They grow accustomed
to new friends and other ways of life, and
forget all their old pleasures."

"What is all this?" said Annie, suddenly
turning towards him, and looking intently
in his face. "I never heard you speak like
this before. Do you think, because to-morrow
I go away for awhile, at my father's wish,
that I shall ever cease to think of those I
leave behind? Besides, is not Mrs. Frampton
an old friend, and is not the old house at
Eton, also, as it were, my second home? I
long to be there again after so long, to see
again the place where I recollect so well
coming for the first time, with your uncle,
when we found you sitting in the doorway."

"And you have not forgotten that, though
it happened so long ago?"

"No; William, I have forgotten nothing,
though you seem now to reproach me. I
know not what it is you hide from me—what
circumstance you treasure up against me;
but this I know, that there is not in the
world another friend so dear to me as you
are; and how could it be otherwise? I cannot
call to mind a single happy day that has
rested in my memory, but was spent with you
—many, many, too, do I remember—some
perhaps, that you, yourself, have forgotten—
and always looking back, you were my kind
companion—seeking by all means to please
me, and never once angry with me, or
reproaching me, till now."

"And do you call to mind nothing that
should grieve me at this moment." he
interrupted; "nothing that should make me
think you changed from what you were in
those happy times you speak of?"

"Nothing. God knows the very thought
of having hurt you would make me the most
unhappy creature upon earth. Think, then,
of whatever I have done, that I never in one
moment dreamed of paining you. What do I
not owe to you? I was a poor ignorant girl,
compared with you, until you taught me
better—taught me to understand the wise
and beautiful thoughts that are to be found
in books; and raised me up, and made me
what I am. Well do I remember how I
listened to you, at first, and thought that
I should never learn such things; but you