ed out after
her on to the lawn, leaving Bell alone in the drawing-room. Perhaps
Lily had understood something of the boy's feelings, and had wished
to speak kindly to him at parting, or almost more than kindly. There
is a silent love which women recognise, and which in some silent way
they acknowledge,--giving gracious but silent thanks for the respect
which accompanies it.

"I have come to say good-bye, Lily," said Johnny Eames, following the
girl down one of the paths.

"Good-bye, John," said she, turning round. "You know how sorry we are
to lose you. But it's a great thing for you to be going up to
London."

"Well, yes. I suppose it is. I'd sooner remain here, though."

"What! stay here, doing nothing! I am sure you would not."

"Of course, I should like to do something. I mean--"

"You mean that it is painful to part with old friends; and I'm sure
that we all feel that at parting with you. But you'll have a holiday
sometimes, and then we shall see you."

"Yes; of course, I shall see you then. I think, Lily, I shall care
more about seeing you than anybody."

"Oh, no, John. There'll be your own mother and sister."

"Yes; there'll be mother and Mary, of course. But I will come over
here the very first day,--that is, if you'll care to see me?"

"We shall care to see you very much. You know that. And--dear John, I
do hope you'll be happy."

There was a tone in her voice as she spoke which almost upset him;
or, I should rather say, which almost put him up upon his legs and
made him speak; but its ultimate effect was less powerful. "Do you?"
said he, as he held her hand for a few happy seconds. "And I'm sure
I hope you'll always be happy. Good-bye, Lily." Then he left her,
returning to the house, and she continued her walk, wandering down
among the trees in the shrubbery, and not showing herself for the
next half hour. How many girls have some such lover as that,--a lover
who says no more to them than Johnny Eames then said to Lily Dale,
who never says more than that? And yet when, in after years, they
count over the names of all who have loved them, the name of that
awkward youth is never forgotten.

That farewell had been spoken nearly two years since, and Lily Dale
was then seventeen. Since that time, John Eames had been home once,
and during his month's holiday had often visited Allington. But he
had never improved upon that occasion of which I have told. It had
seemed to him that Lily was colder to hi