Soon after this, Henry called on Miss Carden, and spent a heavenly hour with her.  He told her his plans for getting on in the world, and she listened with a demure complacency, that seemed to imply she acknowledged a personal interest in his success.  She told him she had always admired his independence in declining his uncle’s offer, and now she was beginning to approve it:  “It becomes a man,” said she.

From the future they went to the past, and she reminded him of the snow-storm and the scene in the church; and, in speaking of it, her eye deepened in color, her voice was low and soft, and she was all tenderness.

If love was not directly spoken, it was constantly implied, and, in fact, that is how true love generally speaks.  The eternal “Je vous aime” of the French novelist is false to nature, let me tell you.

“And, when I come back from London, I hope your dear mother will give me opportunities of knowing her better.”

“She will be delighted; but, going to London!”

“Oh, we spend six weeks in London every year; and this is our time.  I was always glad to go, before—­London is very gay now you know—­but I am not glad now.”

“No more am I, I can assure you.  I am very sorry.”

“Six weeks will soon pass.”

“Six weeks of pain is a good long time.  You are the sunshine of my life.  And you are going to shine on others, and leave me dark and solitary.”

“But how do you know I shall shine on others?  Perhaps I shall be duller than you will, and think all the more of Hillsborough, for being in London.”

The melting tone in which this was said, and the coy and tender side-glance that accompanied it, were balm of Gilead to the lover.

He took comfort, and asked her, cheerfully, if he might write to her.

She hesitated a single moment, and then said “Yes.”

She added, however, after a pause, “But you can’t; for you don’t know my address.”

“But you will tell me.”

“Never! never!  Fifty-eight Clarges Street.”

“When do you go?”

“The day after to-morrow:  at twelve o’clock.”

“May I see you off at the train?”

She hesitated.  “If—­you—­like,” said she, slowly:  “but I think you had better not.”

“Oh, let me see the last of you.”

“Use your own judgment, dear.”

The monosyllable slipped out, unintentionally:  she was thinking of something else.  Yet, as soon as she had uttered it, she said “Oh!” and blushed all, over.  “I forgot I was not speaking to a lady,” said she, innocently:  then, right archly, “please forgive me.”

He caught her hand, and kissed it devotedly.

Then she quivered all over.  “You mustn’t,” said she with the gentlest possible tone of reproach.  “Oh dear, I am so sorry I am going.”  And she turned her sweet eyes on him, with tears in them.

Then a visitor was announced, and they parted.