but to break off my visits gradually.  The first week, I could skip one night,—­the next, two,—­and so on,—­using my own judgment about tapering off the acquaintance gradually and gracefully to an imperceptible point.  The way appearing plain at last, how that unloving might be made easy, I assumed a cheerful air, and went down to breakfast.  My mother looked up rather anxiously at my entrance; but her anxiety evidently vanished at sight of my face.

It did not seem to me quite right to forsake the Woods that morning; for some snow had fallen during the night, and I felt it incumbent upon me to dig somewhat about the doors.  With my trousers tucked into my boots, I trod a new path across the field.  It would have seemed strange not to go in; so I went in and warmed my feet at the kitchen-fire.  Only Mrs. Wood was there; but I made no inquiries.  Not knowing what to say, I rose to go; but, just at that minute, the mischievous Ellen came running out of the keeping-room and wanted to know where I was going.  Why didn’t I come in and see Jane?  So I went in to see Jane, saying my prayers, as I went,—­that is, praying that I might not grow foolish again.  But I did.  I don’t believe any man could have helped it.  She was reclining upon a couch which was drawn towards the fire.  I sat down as far from that couch as the size of the room would allow.  She looked pale and really ill, but raised her blue eyes when she said good-morning; and then—­the hot flushes began to come.  She looked red, too, and I thought she had a settled fever.  I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what.  Some things seemed too warm, others too cold.  At last I thought,—­“Why, anybody can say to anybody, ‘How do you do?’” So I said,—­

“Miss Wood, how do you do, this morning?”

She looked up, surprised; for I tried hard to stiffen my words, and had succeeded admirably.

“Not very unwell, I thank you, Sir,” she replied; but I knew she was worse than the night before.  My situation grew unbearable, and I rose to go.

“Mr. Allen, what do you think about Jane?” said Ellen.  “You know about sickness, don’t you?  Come, feel her pulse, and see if she will have a fever.”  And she drew me towards the lounge.

My heart was in my throat, and my face was on fire.  Jane flushed up, and I thought she was offended at my presumption.  What could I do?  Ellen held out to me the little soft hand; but I dared not touch it, unless I asked her first.

“Miss Wood,” I asked, “shall I mind Ellen?”

“Of course you will,” exclaimed Ellen.  “Tell him yes, Jane.”

Then Jane smiled and said,—­

“Yes, if he is willing.”

And I took her wrist in my thumb and finger.  The pulse was quick and the skin dry and hot.  I think I would have given a year’s existence to clasp that hand between my own, and to stroke down her hair.  I hardly knew how I didn’t do it; and the fear that I should made me drop her arm in a hurry, as if it had burned my fingers.  Ellen stared.  I bade them good-morning abruptly, and left the room and the house.  “This, then,” I thought, as I strode along towards the village, “is the beginning of the ending!”