‘No, I think not,’ I corrected her.  ‘It’s a relief, isn’t it?’

She stared at me for a moment, then went on, ’Yes, I want to tell.  But it hurts, all the same.’

I let her have it her own way; I couldn’t press the point.  She really thought it did hurt.  I perceived that she had, like so many people, a confused mind.

‘Go on,’ I said.

’I must begin a long way back....  You see, before Oliver fell in love with Jane, he ... he cared a little for me.  He really did, Mr. Juke.  And he made me care for him.’  Her voice dropped to a whisper.

This was truth.  I felt no doubt as to that.

’Then ... then Jane came, and took him away from me.  He fell in love with her ...  I thought my heart would break.’

I didn’t protest against the phrase, or ask her to explain it, because she was unhappy.  But I wish people wouldn’t use it, because I don’t know, and they don’t know, what they mean by it.  ’I thought I should be very unhappy,’ is that the meaning?  No, because they are already that.  ’I thought my heart—­the physical organ—­would be injuriously affected to the point of rupture.’  No; I do not believe that is what they mean.  Frankly, I do not know.  There should be a dictionary of the phrases in common use.

However, it would have been pedantic and unkind to ask Miss Potter, who could probably explain no phrases, to explain this.

She went on, crying a little again.

’I couldn’t stop caring for him all at once.  How could I?  I suppose you’ll despise me, Mr. Juke, but I just couldn’t help going on loving him.  It’s once and for ever with me.  Oh, I expect you think it was shameful of me!’

’Shameful?  To love?  No, why?  It’s human nature.  You had bad luck, that’s all.’

’Oh, I did....  Well, there it was, you see.  He was married to Jane, and I cared for him so much that I could hardly bear to go to the house and see them together....  Oh, it wasn’t my fault; he made me care, indeed he did.  I’d never have begun for myself, I’m not that sort of girl, I never was, I know some girls do it, but I never could have.  I suppose I’m too proud or something.’

She paused, but I made no comment.  I never comment on the pride of which I am so often informed by those who possess it.

She resumed, ’Well, it went on and on, and I didn’t seem to get to feel any better about it.  And I hated Jane.  Oh, I know that was wicked, of course.’

As she knew it, I again made no comment.

’And sometimes I think I hated him, when he thought of nothing but her and never at all of me....  Well, sometimes there was trouble between them, because Jane would do things and go about with people he didn’t like.  And especially Mr. Gideon.  We none of us like Mr. Gideon at home, you know; we think he’s awful.  He’s so rude, and has such silly opinions, and is so conceited and unkind.  He’s been awfully rude to father’s papers always.  And that horrid article he had in his silly paper about what he called ‘Potterite Fiction,’ mostly about mother’s books—­did you read it?’