LITMIR.BIZ

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what would otherwise have been plain enough — John’s sudden and violent colour. But the flush died down again — he never spoke a word. And, of course, acting on his evident desire, neither did I.

      “For my part,” continued the young lady, “I have no dislike to Norton Bury. Indeed, I rather admired the place, if I remember right.”

      “You have been there?” Though it was the simplest question, John’s sudden look at her, and the soft inflection of his voice, struck me as peculiar.

      “Once, when I was about twelve years old. But we will talk of something papa likes better. I am sure papa enjoys this lovely evening. Hark! how the doves are cooing in the beech-wood.”

      I asked her if she had ever been in the beech-wood.

      No; she was quite unacquainted with its mysteries — the fern-glades, the woodbine tangles, and the stream, that, if you listened attentively, you could hear faintly gurgling even where we sat.

      “I did not know there was a stream so near. I have generally taken my walks across the Flat,” said Miss March, smiling, and then blushing at having done so, though it was the faintest blush imaginable.

      Neither of us made any reply.

      Mr. March settled himself to laziness and his arm-chair; the conversation fell to the three younger persons — I may say the two — for I also seceded, and left John master of the field. It was enough for me to sit listening to him and Miss March, as they gradually became more friendly; a circumstance natural enough, under the influence of that simple, solitary place, where all the pretences of etiquette seemed naturally to drop away, leaving nothing but the forms dictated and preserved by true manliness and true womanliness.

      How young both looked, how happy in their frank, free youth, with the sun-rays slanting down upon them, making a glory round either head, and — as glory often does — dazzling painfully.

      “Will you change seats with me, Miss March? — The sun will not reach your eyes here.”

      She declined, refusing to punish any one for her convenience.

      “It would not be punishment,” said John, so gravely that one did not recognize it for a “pretty speech” till it had passed — and went on with their conversation. In the course of it he managed so carefully, and at the same time so carelessly, to interpose his broad hat between the sun and her, that the fiery old king went down in splendour before she noticed that she had been thus guarded and sheltered. Though she did not speak — why should she? of such a little thing — yet it was one of those “little things” which often touch a woman more than any words.

      Miss March rose. “I should greatly like to hear your stream and its wonderful singing.” (John Halifax had been telling how it held forth to me during my long, lonely days)—“I wonder what it would say to me? Can we hear it from the bottom of this field?”

      “Not clearly; we had better go into the wood.” For I knew John would like that, though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal by a single word.

      Miss March was more single-minded, or else had no reason for being the contrary. She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness. “Papa, you wouldn’t miss me — I shall not be away five minutes. Then, Mr. Fletcher, will you go with me?”

      “And I will stay beside Mr. March, so that he will not be left alone,” said John, reseating himself.

      What did the lad do that for? — why did he sit watching us so intently, as I led Miss March down the meadow, and into the wood? It passed my comprehension.

      The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in perfect simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesitation. Even as the women I have known have treated me all my life — showing me that sisterly trust and sisterly kindness which have compensated in a measure for the solitary fate which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me; which, in any case, conscience would have forced me to lay upon myself — that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister.

      Yet I watched her with pleasure — this young girl, as she tripped on before me, noticing everything, enjoying everything. She talked to me a good deal too about myself, in her kindly way, asking what I did all day? — and if I were not rather dull sometimes, in this solitary country lodging?

      “I am dull occasionally myself, or should be, if I had time to think about it. It is hard to be an only child.”

      I told her I had never found it so.

      “But then you have your friend. Has Mr. Halifax any brothers or sisters?”

      “None. No relatives living.”

      “Ah!” a compassionate ejaculation, as she pulled a woodbine spray, and began twisting it with those never-quiet fingers of hers. “You and he seem to be great friends.”

      “John is a brother, friend, everything in the world to me.”

      “Is he? He must be very good. Indeed, he looks so,” observed Miss March, thoughtfully. “And I believe — at least I have often heard — that good men are rare.”

      I had no time to enter into that momentous question, when the origin of it himself appeared, breaking through the bushes to join us.

      He apologized for so doing, saying Mr. March had sent him.

      “You surely do not mean that you come upon compulsion? What an ill compliment to this lovely wood.”

      And the eyes of the “nut-browne mayde” were a little mischievous. John looked preternaturally grave, as he said, “I trust you do not object to my coming?”

      She smiled — so merrily, that his slight haughtiness evaporated like mist before the sunbeams.

      “I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bushes; for I heard my own name. What terrible revelations has this friend of mine been making to you, Miss March?”

      He spoke gaily; but I fancied he looked uneasy. The young lady only laughed.

      “I have a great mind not to tell you, Mr. Halifax.”

      “Not when I ask you?”

      He spoke so seriously that she could choose but reply.

      “Mr. Fletcher was telling me three simple facts:— First, that you were an orphan, without relatives. Secondly, that you were his dearest friend. Thirdly — well, I never compromise truth — that you were good.”

      “And you?”

      “The first I was ignorant of; the second I had already guessed; the third —”

      He gazed at her intently.

      “The third I had likewise — not doubted.”

      John made some hurried acknowledgment. He looked greatly pleased — nay, more than pleased — happy. He walked forward by Miss March’s side, taking his natural place in the conversation, while I as naturally as willingly fell behind. But I heard all they said, and joined in it now and then.

      Thus, sometimes spoken to, and sometimes left silent, watching their two figures, and idly noting their comparative heights — her head came just above John’s shoulder — I followed these young people through the quiet wood.

      Let me say a word about that wood — dear and familiar as it was. Its like I have never since seen. It was small — so small that in its darkest depths you might catch the sunshine lighting up the branches of its outside trees. A young wood, too — composed wholly of smooth-barked beeches and sturdy Scotch firs, growing up side by side — the Adam and Eve in this forest Eden. No old folk were there — no gnarled and withered foresters — every tree rose up, upright in its youth, and perfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking under-growth of vegetation; nothing but mosses, woodbine, and ferns; and between the boles of the trees you could trace vista after vista, as between the slender pillars of a cathedral aisle.

      John

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