Our paroxysms subsided into sadness; a close correspondence was arranged.  Something of the bustle and excitement of change supervened.  If it turned out to be, in truth, a ‘charming residence,’ how very delightful our meeting in France, with the interest of foreign scenery, ways, and faces, would be!

So Thursday arrived—­a new gush of sorrow—­a new brightening up—­and, amid regrets and anticipations, we parted at the gate at the farther end of the Windmill Wood.  Then, of course, were more good-byes, more embraces, and tearful smiles.  Good Mrs. Jolks, who met us there, was in a huge fuss; I believe it was her first visit to the metropolis, and she was in proportion heated and important, and terrified about the train, so we had not many last words.

I watched poor Milly, whose head was stretched from the window, her hand waving many adieux, until the curve of the road, and the clump of old ash-trees, thick with ivy, hid Milly, carriage and all, from view.  My eyes filled again with tears.  I turned towards Bartram.  At my side stood honest Mary Quince.

’Don’t take on so, Miss; ’twon’t be no time passing; three months is nothing at all,’ she said, smiling kindly.

I smiled through my tears and kissed the good creature, and so side by side we re-entered the gate.

The lithe young man in fustian, whom I had seen talking with Beauty on the morning of our first encounter with that youthful Amazon, was awaiting our re-entrance with the key in his hand.  He stood half behind the open wicket.  One lean brown cheek, one shy eye, and his sharp up-turned nose, I saw as we passed.  He was treating me to a stealthy scrutiny, and seemed to shun my glance, for he shut the door quickly, and busied himself locking it, and then began stubbing up some thistles which grew close by, with the toe of his thick shoe, his back to us all the time.

It struck me that I recognised his features, and I asked Mary Quince.

‘Have you seen that young man before, Quince?’

’He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in the garden, I believe.’

‘Do you know his name, Mary?’

‘They call him Tom, I don’t know what more, Miss.’

‘Tom,’ I called; ‘please, Tom, come here for a moment.’

Tom turned about, and approached slowly.  He was more civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.

‘Tom, what is your other name,—­Tom what, my good man?’ I asked.

‘Tom Brice, ma’am.’

‘Haven’t I seen you before, Tom Brice?’ I pursued, for my curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly was a resemblance in Tom’s features to those of the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage which had scared that quiet place.