Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only
drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face
flushed and contracted as if in pain.

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and
saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings
were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence;
holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she
said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains
never."

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every
one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down
her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could
have bitten her tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said
and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every
one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.
Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else while her tears
fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children
set off early home, not before (in spite of mal-a-propos speeches)
they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place,
and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and
declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would
have just such another evening.

"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice, and
going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said,
"You don't know how sorry I am I said it."