He was just as he has always been, but somehow, here in the city, I
couldn't help finding him bigger, stronger, more bucolic. His clothes
looked coarse. His collar was low for the mode, his gloveless hands were
red. There was something almost clerical in his schoolmasterly garb, but
his bold dark eyes and short hair aggressively brushed to a standstill, as
he used to say, looked anything but ministerial. It was plain that he was
a man of sense and spirit, one to be proud of; plain that he was a
countryman, too.

I couldn't help seeing his thick shoes any more than I could his hurt face
when I was distant and his ardour the moment I grew kind; and I was so
ashamed--thinking of his looks and picking flaws, when three months ago I
was a country girl myself--that I know--I don't know what I should have
done, if Kitty hadn't returned.

I was so relieved to see her, for John has been writing of marriage soon
and of a home, in one room if need be; and we have too much to accomplish,
with beauty and woman's wit and brain and strength, for that. It is my
duty to think for both, if he's too much in love--the dear, absurd fellow!
And yet--

As soon as he was gone, Kitty jumped up from the drawing table. She was on
pins and needles for anxiety, her eyes dancing.

"Well, when's the wedding?" she cried.

"What wedding?"

I was vexed and puzzled, and distressed, too, after sending John away as I
had done. I wanted to be alone and have a chance to think quietly.