"Why should you think about me?"

"It was very foolish, of course," said John. "Only, when I caught sight
of you that day I was very much struck. You know, I was only a boy, then.
I hoped you would come back--but you did not." He blushed violently, and
then glanced at his companion to see whether she had noticed it.

"No," she said, "I did not come back for some time."

"And then I was gone. Mr. Ambrose never told me you had come."

"Why should he?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think he might. You see Billingsfield has been a
sort of home to me, and it is a small place; so I thought he might have
told me the news."

"I suppose he thought it would not interest you," said Mrs. Goddard. "I
am sure I do not know why it should. But you must be very fond of the
place, are you not?"

"Very. As I was saying, it is very like home to me. My father lives in
town you know--that is not at all like home. One always associates the
idea of home with the country, and a vicarage and a Hall, and all that."

"Does one?" said Mrs. Goddard, picking her way over the frozen mud of the
road. "Take care, Nellie, it is dreadfully slippery!"

"How much she has grown," remarked John, looking at the girl's active
figure as she walked before them. "She was quite a little girl when I saw
her first."

"Yes, she grows very fast," answered Mrs. Goddard rather regretfully.

"You say that as though you were sorry."

"I? No. I am glad to see her grow. What a funny remark."

"I thought you spoke sadly," explained John.

"Oh, dear no. Only she is coming to the awkward age."

"She is coming to it very gracefully," said John, who wanted to say
something pleasant.

"That is the most any of us can hope to do," answered Mrs. Goddard with a
little smile. "We all have our awkward age, I suppose."

"I should not think you could remember yours."

"Why? Do you think it was so very long ago?" Mrs. Goddard laughed.

"No--I cannot believe you ever had any," said John.

The boyish compliment pleased Mrs. Goddard. It was long since any one had
flattered her, for flattery did not enter into the squire's system for
making himself agreeable.

"Do they teach that sort of thing at Cambridge?" she asked demurely.

"What sort of thing?"

"Making little speeches to ladies," said she.

"No--I wish they did," said John, laughing. "I should know much better
how to make them. We learn how to write Greek odes to moral
abstractions."

"What a dreadful thing to do