‘Phillis,’ said I, rushing at my subject and interrupting her, ’I went a long walk to think over a letter I had this morning—­a letter from Canada.  You don’t know how it has grieved me.  I held it out to her as I spoke.  Her colour changed a little, but it was more the reflection of my face, I think, than because she formed any definite idea from my words.  Still she did not take the letter.  I had to bid her to read it, before she quite understood what I wished.  She sate down rather suddenly as she received it into her hands; and, spreading it on the dresser before her, she rested her forehead on the palms of her hands, her arms supported on the table, her figure a little averted, and her countenance thus shaded.  I looked out of the open window; my heart was very heavy.  How peaceful it all seemed in the farmyard!  Peace and plenty.  How still and deep was the silence of the house!  Tick-tick went the unseen clock on the wide staircase.  I had heard the rustle once, when she turned over the page of thin paper.  She must have read to the end.  Yet she did not move, or say a word, or even sigh.  I kept on looking out of the window, my hands in my pockets.  I wonder how long that time really was?  It seemed to me interminable—­unbearable.  At length I looked round at her.  She must have felt my look, for she changed her attitude with a quick sharp movement, and caught my eyes.

‘Don’t look so sorry, Paul,’ she said.  ’Don’t, please.  I can’t bear it.  There is nothing to be sorry for.  I think not, at least.  You have not done wrong, at any rate.’  I felt that I groaned, but I don’t think she heard me.  ’And he,—­there’s no wrong in his marrying, is there?  I’m sure I hope he’ll be happy.  Oh! how I hope it!’ These last words were like a wail; but I believe she was afraid of breaking down, for she changed the key in which she spoke, and hurried on.

’Lucille—­that’s our English Lucy, I suppose?  Lucille Holdsworth!  It’s a pretty name; and I hope—­I forget what I was going to say.  Oh! it was this.  Paul, I think we need never speak about this again; only remember you are not to be sorry.  You have not done wrong; you have been very, very kind; and if I see you looking grieved I don’t know what I might do;—­I might breakdown, you know.’  I think she was on the point of doing so then, but the dark storm came dashing down, and the thunder-cloud broke right above the house, as it seemed.  Her mother, roused from sleep, called out for Phillis; the men and women from the hay-field came running into shelter, drenched through.  The minister followed, smiling, and not unpleasantly excited by the war of elements; for, by dint of hard work through the long summer’s day, the greater part of the hay was safely housed in the barn in the field.  Once or twice in the succeeding bustle I came across Phillis, always busy, and, as it seemed to me, always doing the right thing.  When I was alone in my own room at night I allowed myself to feel relieved; and to