ner-time. Dinner-time came, but I had to dine alone. It was the
first time I ever knew him break even such a trivial promise. My heart
misgave me--I spent a miserable day. I was afraid to go in search of
him, lest he should return to a dreary, empty parlour. Better, when he
did come in, that he should find a cheerful hearth and--me.

Me, his friend and brother, who had loved him these six years better
than anything else in the whole world. Yet what could I do now? Fate
had taken the sceptre out of my hands--I was utterly powerless; I could
neither give him comfort nor save him pain any more.

What I felt then, in those long, still hours, many a one has felt
likewise; many a parent over a child, many a sister over a brother,
many a friend over a friend. A feeling natural and universal. Let
those who suffer take it patiently, as the common lot; let those who
win hold the former ties in tenderest reverence, nor dare to flaunt the
new bond cruelly in the face of the old.

Having said this, which, being the truth, it struck me as right to say,
I will no more allude to the subject.

In the afternoon there occurred an incident. A coach-and-four,
resplendent in liveries, stopped at the door; I knew it well, and so
did all Norton Bury. It was empty; but Lady Caroline's own maid--so I
heard afterwards--sat in the rumble, and Lady Caroline's own black-eyed
Neapolitan page leaped down, bearing a large letter, which I concluded
was for Miss March.

I was glad that John was not at home; glad that the coach, with all its
fine paraphernalia, was away, empty as it had arrived, before John came
in.

He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, looking
at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long fingers
stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. At
first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I
remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen
shining ever so far.

"What a bright blaze!-- Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope?--
Tea--yes, that's far better; I have had such a long walk, and am so
tired."

The words were cheerful, so was the tone. TOO cheerful--oh, by far!
The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend's heart, like the
piping of soldiers as they go away back from a newly-filled grave.

"Where have you been, John?"

"All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there--such expansive views.
As Mrs. Tod in