Then came recollections of later days, when John was a young man, and Lizzy still a little girl,—­when long talks banished turkeys and apples and sliding,—­when new books or sleigh-rides crowded out the old games,—­when the two days of John’s yearly visit were half-spent in the leafless, sunny woods, gathering mosses and acorn-cups, delicate fern leaves, and clusters of fire-moss, and red winter-green berries, for the pretty frames and baskets Lizzy’s skilful fingers fabricated,—­when he shook hands at coming and going, instead of kissing her;—­but it seemed just the same, somehow.  Dear me! those days were all gone!  John didn’t care about her any more! he was in love with a beautiful Boston lady.  Why should he care about a homely little country cousin?  He would go to live in Boston in a great big house, and he’d be a great man, and people would talk about him, and she should see his name in the papers, but he never would come to Coventry any more!  And he’d acted as if he did love her, too!—­that was men’s way,—­heartless things!  If John had a good time, what did he care if Lizzy did grow into a gray-haired, puckered-up old maid, like Miss Case, with nobody to love her, or take care of her, or ask about her, or—­or—­kiss her?—­The climax was too much for Lizzy; great big tears ran down on the arm of the stuffed chair, and she would have sobbed out loud, only Chloe opened the door, to put up the tea-things, I suppose, and Lizzy wouldn’t cry before her.  But, for all that, she didn’t hear Chloe come to the fireplace; she only felt her sit down in the big chair, and, simultaneously, a pair of strong arms lifted Miss Lizzy on to John Boynton’s knee, and held her there.  It wasn’t Chloe.

I declare, one gets out of patience with these men! they do astonish a person so sometimes, one doesn’t know what to do or say.  Lizzy had been thinking to herself, not two minutes ago, with what cool and smiling reserve she should meet John Boynton, how dignified and kindly distant she would be to him,—­and now,—­well! it was so sudden,—­and then, as I said before, these men do get round one so,—­if you happen to love them.—­Lizzy forgot, I suppose; at any rate, she wasn’t dignified, or reserved, or proper, or anything of the kind, for she just hid her pretty head on his square shoulder, and said, “Oh, John!”—­“slowly, and nothing more,”—­as Mr. Tennyson remarks about cutting Iphigenia’s head off with a sharp knife.

I don’t know that John talked much, either.  I rather think Lizzy got over the climax that had troubled her a little while ago.  Presently, she raised her head and gathered up her hair that had fallen down, and became painfully aware that she had on only a blue calico!  John never knew it; he knew somebody had a very sweet face, full of cloudy blushes and sunshiny smiles, and, not being a Pre-Raphaelite, the foreground was of no consequence to him.