trangely. He was
always kind, and would sit beside her, stroking her hair and cheek as
he had done of old. Once she entreated him not to be so silent--she
felt no touch of envy when he told her what the world was like, and
what it daily taught him; but when he left her to herself, she felt so
lonely! Never, by word or look, did she remind him of that evening when
he had promised he would never leave her--such hopes as these she had
long resigned. And since he had nothing to conceal from her, he
appeared to love her twice as well.

In the fullness of his heart, he would sit for hours telling her of the
sun and moon and stars; of all the trees and flowers; and especially
how their parents looked, and they themselves. To her very heart's
core, she felt a thrill of joy, when he innocently told her that she
was fairer far than all the village maidens; he described her as tall
and slender; with delicately-chiselled features, and dark eyebrows. He
had also seen himself, he said, in the glass; but he was not nearly so
good-looking--men in general were not, by a great deal, so handsome as
women. All this was more than she could quite comprehend; only so much
she did: her own looks pleased him, and more than this her heart did
not desire.

They did not again return to this topic; but on the beauties of nature
he was perfectly inexhaustible. When he was gone, she would recall his
words, and feel a kind of jealousy of a world that robbed her of him.
In secret this childish feeling grew and strengthened--growing stronger
even than the pleasure she had felt in his delight. Above all, she
began to hate the sun; for the sun, he told her, was brighter than all
created things besides. In her dim conceptions, brightness and beauty
were the same; and never did she feel so disheartened as when, towards
evening, he sat beside her, intoxicated with delight, watching the sun
go down. Of herself he had never spoken in such words--and did this
sight so cause him to forget her that he did not even see the tears
that started to her eyes--tears of vexation, and of a curious kind of
jealous grievance?

Her heart grew heavier still, when, with the doctor's sanction, the
vicar began the education of his son. Before his eyes had been couched,
the greater part of his day had been spent in practising his music.
Bible teaching, something of history and mathematics, and a trifle of
Latin, was all that formerly had been considered needful. In all those