might press her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the
brightness of her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no
more gibes now on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no
laughing comments on his coming and going. With downright honesty she
told him everything: how she had loved him before her heart was
warranted in such a passion; how, with much thinking, she had resolved
that it would be unwise to take him at his first word, and had thought
it better that he should return to London, and then think over it; how
she had almost repented of her courage when she had feared, during
those long summer days, that he would forget her; and how her heart had
leapt for joy when her old friend had told her that he was coming.

"And yet," said he, "you were not glad to see me!"

"Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who
has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt.
But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the
knowledge that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I
had not seen you till to-morrow." But as she spoke she pressed his
arm, and this caress gave the lie to her last words.

"No, do not come in to-night," she said, when she reached the little
wicket that led up to the parsonage. "Indeed, you shall not. I could
not behave myself properly if you did."

"But I don't want you to behave properly."

"Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain
Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night."