“Oh mamma, have you wished?” cried Nellie.  “You must, you know, when you see the new moon!”

Mrs. Goddard did not answer, but she sighed faintly and drew a little closer to the worthy vicar as she walked.  She always wished, whether there was a new moon or not, and she always wished the same wish.  Perhaps Mr. Ambrose understood, for he was not without tact.  He changed the subject.

“How do you like our John Short?” he asked.

“Very much, I think,” answered Mrs. Goddard.  “He is so fresh and young.”

“He is a fine fellow.  I was sure you would like him.  Is he at all like what you fancied he would be?”

“Well no—­not exactly.  I know you told me how he looked, but I always thought he would be rather Byronic—­the poetical type, if you know what I mean.”

“He has a great deal of poetry in him,” said Mr. Ambrose in a tone of profound admiration.  “He writes the best Greek verse I ever saw.”

“Oh yes—­I daresay,” replied Mrs. Goddard smiling in the dusk.  “I am sure he must be very clever.”

So they chatted quietly as they walked down the park.  But the squire and John did not make progress in their conversation, and by the time they reached the gate they had yielded to an awkward silence.  They had both been annoyed because Mrs. Goddard had taken the vicar’s arm instead of choosing one of themselves, but the joint sense of disappointment did not constitute a common bond of interest.  Either one would have suffered anything rather than mention Mrs. Goddard to the other in the course of the walk.  And yet Mr. Juxon might have been John’s father.  At the gate of the cottage they separated.  The squire said he would turn back.  Mrs. Goddard had reached her destination.  John and the vicar would return to the vicarage.  John tried to linger a moment, to get a word with Mrs. Goddard.  He was so persistent that she let him follow her through the wicket gate and then turned quickly.

“What is it?” she asked, rather suddenly, holding out her hand to say good-bye.

“Oh, nothing,” answered John.  “That is—­would you like to see one of those—­those little odes of mine?”

“Yes, certainly, if you like,” she answered frankly, and then laughed.  “Of course I would.  Good-night.”

He turned and fled.  The vicar was waiting for him, and eyed him rather curiously as he came back.  Mr. Juxon was standing in the middle of the road, making Stamboul jump over his stick, backwards and forwards.

“Good-night,” he said, pausing in his occupation.  The vicar and John turned away and walked homewards.  Before they turned the corner towards the village John instinctively looked back.  Mr. Juxon was still making Stamboul jump the stick before the cottage, but as far as he could see in the dusk, Mrs. Goddard and Nellie had disappeared within.  John felt that he was very unhappy.

“Mr. Ambrose,” he began.  Then he stopped and hesitated.  “Mr. Ambrose,” he continued at last, “you never told me half the news of Billingsfield in your letters.”