'Why, Sam, how can you be so fast! I've never even said I liked 'ee;
and it is all your own doing, coming after me!'

'Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at you like the
rest.' He stooped to kiss her a farewell, for they had reached her
mother's door.

'No, Sam; you sha'n't!' she cried, putting her hand over his mouth.
'You ought to be more serious on such a night as this.' And she bade
him adieu without allowing him to kiss her or to come indoors.

The vicar just left a widower was at this time a man about forty
years of age, of good family, and childless. He had led a secluded
existence in this college living, partly because there were no
resident landowners; and his loss now intensified his habit of
withdrawal from outward observation. He was still less seen than
heretofore, kept himself still less in time with the rhythm and
racket of the movements called progress in the world without. For
many months after his wife's decease the economy of his household
remained as before; the cook, the housemaid, the parlour-maid, and
the man out-of-doors performed their duties or left them undone, just
as Nature prompted them--the vicar knew not which. It was then
represented to him that his servants seemed to have nothing to do in
his small family of one. He was struck with the truth of this
representation, and decided to cut down his establishment. But he
was forestalled by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who said one evening that
she wished to leave him.

'And why?' said the parson.