‘Gone away!’ said his wife.  But no word from Phillis.

‘Yes!’ said I.  ’He found a letter at Hornby when we got home the other night—­ when we got home from here; he ought to have got it sooner; he was ordered to go up to London directly, and to see some people about a new line in Canada, and he’s gone to lay it down; he has sailed to-day.  He was sadly grieved not to have time to come out and wish you all good-by; but he started for London within two hours after he got that letter.  He bade me thank you most gratefully for all your kindnesses; he was very sorry not to come here once again.’  Phillis got up and left the room with noiseless steps.

‘I am very sorry,’ said the minister.

‘I am sure so am I!’ said cousin Holman.  ’I was real fond of that lad ever since I nursed him last June after that bad fever.’

The minister went on asking me questions respecting Holdsworth’s future plans; and brought out a large old-fashioned atlas, that he might find out the exact places between which the new railroad was to run.  Then supper was ready; it was always on the table as soon as the clock on the stairs struck eight, and down came Phillis—­her face white and set, her dry eyes looking defiance to me, for I am afraid I hurt her maidenly pride by my glance of sympathetic interest as she entered the room.  Never a word did she say—­never a question did she ask about the absent friend, yet she forced herself to talk.

And so it was all the next day.  She was as pale as could be, like one who has received some shock; but she would not let me talk to her, and she tried hard to behave as usual.  Two or three times I repeated, in public, the various affectionate messages to the family with which I was charged by Holdsworth; but she took no more notice of them than if my words had been empty air.  And in this mood I left her on the Sabbath evening.

My new master was not half so indulgent as my old one.  He kept up strict discipline as to hours, so that it was some time before I could again go out, even to pay a call at the Hope Farm.

It was a cold misty evening in November.  The air, even indoors, seemed full of haze; yet there was a great log burning on the hearth, which ought to have made the room cheerful.  Cousin Holman and Phillis were sitting at the little round table before the fire, working away in silence.  The minister had his books out on the dresser, seemingly deep in study, by the light of his solitary candle; perhaps the fear of disturbing him made the unusual stillness of the room.  But a welcome was ready for me from all; not noisy, not demonstrative—­that it never was; my damp wrappers were taken off; the next meal was hastened, and a chair placed for me on one side of the fire, so that I pretty much commanded a view of the room.  My eye caught on Phillis, looking so pale and weary, and with a sort of aching tone (if I may call it so) in her voice.  She was doing all the accustomed things—­fulfilling