John returned it with a bow, merely saying "that he would rather not
take any money."

The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more
of persistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr.
March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the
while lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure, and flushed, proud
face.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, nearly."

"Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned back again.
"My name is March--Henry March; if you should ever--"

"Thank you, sir. Good-day."

"Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but John
did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following young
Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at
John. Then they disappeared.

"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable." He flung
himself down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so
afraid he would take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults.
I sat wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in the
sandy path with the rose-switch he had cut.