nst my poor David. What could I do but stand
aside and watch?

"When was it? Let me see--five, six years ago. But, indeed, 'tis
nothing."

"Not exactly 'nothing.' Do tell me!"

And John stood, listening for her words, counting them even, as one
would count, drop by drop, a vial of joy which is nearly empty, yet
Time's remorseless hand still keeps on, pouring, pouring.

"Well, if you must know it, it was one of my naughtinesses--I was very
naughty as a child. They would not let me have a piece of bread that I
wanted to give away to a poor lad."

"Who stood opposite--under an alley--in the rain?--was it not so?"

"How could you know? But he looked so hungry; I was so sorry for him."

"Were you?"--in a tone almost inaudible.

"I have often thought of him since, when I chanced to look at this
mark."

"Let me look at it--may I?"

Taking her hand, he softly put back the sleeve, discovering, just above
the wrist, a deep, discoloured seam. He gazed at it, his features all
quivering, then, without a word either of adieu or apology, he quitted
the room.

CHAPTER XV

I was left with Miss March alone. She sat looking at the door where
John had disappeared, in extreme surprise, not unmingled with a certain
embarrassment.

"What does he mean, Mr. Fletcher? Can I have offended him in any way?"

"Indeed, no."

"Why did he go away?"

But that question, simple as it was in itself, and most simply put,
involved so much, that I felt I had no right to answer it; while, at
the same time, I had no possible right to use any of those disguises or
prevarications which are always foolish and perilous, and very
frequently wrong. Nor, even had I desired, was Miss March the woman to
whom one dared offer the like; therefore I said to her plainly:

"I know the reason. I would tell you, but I think John would prefer
telling you himself."

"As he pleases," returned Miss March, a slight reserve tempering her
frank manner; but it soon vanished, and she began talking to me in her
usual friendly way, asking me many questions about the Brithwoods and
about Norton Bury. I answered them freely--my only reservation being,
that I took care not to give any information concerning ourselves.

Soon afterwards, as John did not return, I took leave of her, and went
to our own parlour.

He was not there. He had left word with little Jack, who met him on
the common, that he was gone a long walk, and should not return till
din