There was a stop.  I was so oppressed with a sense of happiness, that I could find no voice to speak my joy or tell my thanks.  Mr Fairman paused, and then continued.

“You will come to the parsonage to-morrow, and take part again in the instruction of the lads after their return.  You will be received as my daughter’s suitor.  Arrangements will be made for a provision for you.  Mayhew and I have it in consideration now.  When our plan is matured, it shall be communicated to you.  There need be no haste.  You are both young—­too young for marriage—­and we shall not yet fix the period of your espousal.”

My mind was overpowered with a host of dazzling visions, which rose spontaneously as the minister proceeded in his delightful talk.  I soon lost all power of listening to details.  The beloved Ellen, the faithful and confiding maiden, who had not deserted the wanderer although driven from her father’s doors—­she, the beautiful and priceless jewel of my heart, was present in every thought, and was the ornament and chief of every group that passed before my warm imagination.  Whilst the incumbent continued to speak of the future, of his own sacrifice, and my great gain—­whilst his words, without penetrating, touched my ears, and died away—­my soul grew busy in the contemplation of the prize, which, now that it was mine, I scarce knew how to estimate.  Where was she then?  How had she been?  To how many days of suffering and of trial may she have been doomed?  How many pangs may have wrung that noble heart before its sad complaints were listened to, and mercifully answered?  I craved to be at her side.  The words which her father had spoken had loosened the heavy chain that tied me down—­my limbs were conscious of their freedom—­my spirit felt its liberty—­what hindered instant flight?  In the midst of my reverie Dr Mayhew entered the room—­and I remember distinctly that my immediate impulse was to leave the two friends together, and to run as fast as love could urge and feet could carry me—­to the favoured spot which held all that I cared for now on earth.  The plans, however, of Doctor Mayhew interfered with this desire.  He had done much for me, more than I knew, and he was not the man to go without his payment.  A long evening was yet before us, time enough for a hundred jokes, which I must hear, and witness, and applaud or I was most unworthy of the kindness he had shown me.  The business over for which Mr Fairman had come expressly, the promise given of an early visit to the parsonage on the following day, an affectionate parting at the garden gate, and the incumbent proceeded on his homeward road.  The doctor and I returned together to the house in silence and one of us in partial fear; for I could see the coming sarcasm in the questionable smile that played about his lips.  Not a word was spoken when we resumed our seats.  At last he rang the bell, and Williams answered it——­

“Book Mr Stukely by the London coach to-morrow, Williams,” said the master; “he positively must and will depart to-morrow.”