g themselves--a courage in which dear
friends often fail. But, nevertheless, very little was said between them
about Captain John Broughton. All that was said may be here repeated.

'John says that he shall return here in August,' Miss Le Smyrger said
as Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Colne, on the
morning after that gentleman's departure.

'He told me so himself,' said Patience; and as she spoke her round dark
eyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will. If Miss Le Smyrger
had intended to carry the conversation any further she changed her mind
as she looked at her companion. Then, as I said, the summer ran by, and
towards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting in
the same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation.

'I got a letter from John this morning. He says that he shall be here on
the third.'

'Does he?'

'He is very punctual to the time he named.'

'Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,' said Patience.

'I hope that you will be glad to see him,' said Miss Le Smyrger.

'Very glad to see him,' said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then
the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till
after Captain Broughton's second arrival in the parish.

Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time
Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their
accustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less careful
in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go
among her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her
father. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those
around her that some great change had come upon her. She would sit
during the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage
orchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow
was always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely
reading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the
winding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking,
thinking, thinking--thinking of something of which she had never spoken.
Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes would
pass her even without a word; but never--never once did she dare to ask
of the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well enough. No
confession was necessary to inform her that Patience Woolsworthy was in
love with J