John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and went over more than once again to Allington, and called on the squire, on one occasion dining with him and meeting the three ladies from the Small House; and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like any ordinary man.  But he was not again alone with Lily Dale, nor did he learn whether she had in truth written those two words in her book.  But the reader may be know that she did write them there on the evening of the day on which the promise was made.  ‘Lilian Dale—­Old Maid’.

And when John’s holiday was over, he returned to his duties at the elbow of Sir Raffle Buffle.

CHAPTER XXXVI

GRACE CRAWLEY RETURNS HOME

About this time Grace Crawley received two letters, the first of them reaching her while John Eames was still at the cottage, and the other immediately after his return to London.  They both help to tell our story, and our reader shall, therefore, read them if he so please—­or, rather, he shall read the first and as much of the second as is necessary for him.  Grace’s answer to the first letter he shall see also.  Her answer to the second will be told in a very few words.  The first was from Major Grantly, and the task of answering that was by no means easy for Grace.

’Cosby Lodge,—­February, 186-

’Dearest grace,

’I told you when I parted from you, that I should write to you, and I think it best to do so at once, in order that you may fully understand me.  Spoken words are soon forgotten,’—­’I shall never forget his words,’ Grace had said to herself as she read this;—­’and are not always as plain as they might be.  Dear Grace, I suppose I ought not to say so, but I fancied when I parted from you at Allington, that I had succeeded in making myself dear to you.  I believe you to be so true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal from me the fact that you love me.  I shall believe that it is so, till I am deliberately and solemnly assured by yourself that it is not so;—­and I conjure you to think what is due both to yourself and to myself, before you allow yourself to think of making such an assurance unless it be strictly true.

’I have already told my friends that I have asked you to be my wife.  I tell you this, in order that you may know how little effect your answer to me has had towards inducing me to give you up.  What you said about your father and your family has no weight with me, and ought ultimately to have none with you.  This business of your father’s great misfortune—­so great, that probably, had we not known each other before it happened, it might have prevented our becoming intimate when we chanced to meet.  But we had met before it happened, and before it happened I had determined to ask you to be my wife.  What should I have to think of myself if I allowed my heart to be altered by such a cause as that?