t, we received a
message of thanks for our "kindness." She had given way at last, Mrs.
Tod said, and kept her chamber, not seriously ill, but in spirit
thoroughly broken down. For three days more, when I went to meet John
returning from Norton Bury, I could see that his first glance, as he
rode up between the chestnut trees, was to the window of the room that
had been mine. I always told him, without his asking, whatever Mrs.
Tod had told me about her state; he used to listen, generally in
silence, and then speak of something else. He hardly ever mentioned
Miss March's name.

On the fourth morning, I happened to ask him if he had told my father
what had occurred here?

"No."

I looked surprised.

"Did you wish me to tell him? I will, if you like, Phineas."

"Oh, no. He takes little interest in strangers."

Soon after, as he lingered about the parlour, John said:

"Probably I may be late to-night. After business hours I want to have
a little talk with your father."

He stood irresolutely by the fire. I knew by his countenance that
there was something on his mind.

"David."

"Ay, lad."

"Will you not tell me first what you want to say to my father?"

"I can't stay now. To-night, perhaps. But, pshaw! what is there to be
told? 'Nothing.'"

"Anything that concerns you can never be to me quite 'nothing.'"

"I know that," he said, affectionately, and went out of the room.

When he came in he looked much more cheerful--stood switching his
riding-whip after the old habit, and called upon me to admire his
favourite brown mare.

"I do; and her master likewise. John, when you're on horseback you
look like a young knight of the Middle Ages. Maybe, some of the old
Norman blood was in 'Guy Halifax, gentleman.'"

It was a dangerous allusion. He changed colour so rapidly and
violently that I thought I had angered him.

"No--that would not matter--cannot--cannot--never shall. I am what God
made me, and what, with His blessing, I will make myself."

He said no more, and very soon afterwards he rode away. But not
before, as every day, I had noticed that wistful wandering glance up at
the darkened window of the room, where sad and alone, save for kindly
Mrs. Tod, the young orphan lay.

In the evening, just before bed-time, he said to me with a rather sad
smile, "Phineas, you wanted to know what it was that I wished to speak
about to your father?"

"Ay, do tell me."

"It is hardly worth telling.