r John.

Neither of us were again invited by Mrs. Jessop. We could not blame
her; she held a precious charge, and Norton Bury was a horrible place
for gossip. Already tale after tale had gone abroad about Miss March's
"ingratitude" to her relations. Already tongue after tongue had
repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of "young
Halifax and the 'squire." Had it been "young Halifax and Miss March,"
I truly believe John could not have borne it.

As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by chance--a
momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in the
street. I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether he
mentioned it or not--knew by the wild, troubled look, which did not
wear off for hours.

I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain.

For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over "the
lad," as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a young
man, was going from him--he was becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed.
That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had been so beautiful
in him all his life through, were utterly lost.

"What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one evening, when he
had come in, looking worse than usual--I knew why; for Ursula and her
friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in the
spring twilight. "Thou art very ill, I fear?"

"Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with me. Do let
me alone."

Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken
words. "It was not THEE that spoke, John," I said.

"No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodges
here:" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives in is at times a
burning hell."

He spoke in a low tone of great anguish. What could I answer? Nothing.

We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut trees in the
Abbey-yard were budding green: there came that faint, sweet sound of
children at play, which one hears as the days begin to lengthen.

"It's a lovely evening," he said.

"John!" I looked him in the face. He could not palm off that kind
deceit upon me. "You have heard something about her?"

"I have," he groaned. "She is leaving Norton Bury."

"Thank God!" I muttered.

John turned fiercely upon me--but only for a moment. "Perhaps I too
ought to say, 'Thank God.' This could not have lasted long, or it
would have made me--what I