He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear.  There was an omnibus passing—­going into the country; the conductor thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement.  It was too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it, and was borne away,—­past long rows of houses—­then past detached villas with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and, by-and-by, to a small country town.  Then every body got down; and so did Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too.  He went into the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind.  He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these wise moods, he had always fore-told were certain to follow, if he ever did make such a fool of himself.  Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his shoulder only yesterday?  He could not even shake off the recollection that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once—­if never again.  He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her altogether.  At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now so tender, and then so haughty and regal-proud.  And then he thought over every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally forgetting her.  He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not know which became her best.  Even this morning, how magnificent she had looked,—­her eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!

If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon.  All that he gained in return for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vivid conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like Margaret; that she did not love him and never would; but that she—­no! nor the whole world—­should never hinder him from loving her.  And so he returned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return to Milton.

It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse.  The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of thought.  He knew how much he had to do—­more than his usual work, owing to the commotion of the day before.  He had to see his brother magistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the morning, for the comfortand safety of his newly imported Irish hands; he had to secure them from all chance of communication with the discontented work-people of Milton.  Last of all, he had to go home and encounter his mother.