It was a silent meal, for people do not know what to say in those last minutes.  And Bernard, too, was there; proving how true is the adage which says, that two are company, but that three are not.  I think that Lily was wrong to come up on that last morning; but she would not hear of letting him start without seeing him, when her lover had begged her not to put herself to so much trouble.  Trouble!  Would she not have sat up all night to see even the last of the top of his hat?

Then Bernard, muttering something about the horse, went away.  “I have only one minute to speak to you,” said she, jumping up, “and I have been thinking all night of what I had to say.  It is so easy to think, and so hard to speak.”

“My darling, I understand it all.”

“But you must understand this, that I will never distrust you.  I will never ask you to give me up again, or say that I could be happy without you.  I could not live without you; that is, without the knowledge that you are mine.  But I will never be impatient, never.  Pray, pray believe me!  Nothing shall make me distrust you.”

“Dearest Lily, I will endeavour to give you no cause.”

“I know you will not; but I specially wanted to tell you that.  And you will write,—­very soon?”

“Directly I get there.”

“And as often as you can.  But I won’t bother you; only your letters will make me so happy.  I shall be so proud when they come to me.  I shall be afraid of writing too much to you, for fear I should tire you.”

“You will never do that.”

“Shall I not?  But you must write first, you know.  If you could only understand how I shall live upon your letters!  And now good-bye.  There are the wheels.  God bless you, my own, my own!” And she gave herself up into his arms, as she had given herself up into his heart.

She stood at the door as the two men got into the gig, and, as it passed down through the gate, she hurried out upon the terrace, from whence she could see it for a few yards down the lane.  Then she ran from the terrace to the gate, and, hurrying through the gate, made her way into the churchyard, from the farther corner of which she could see the heads of the two men till they had made the turn into the main road beyond the parsonage.  There she remained till the very sound of the wheels no longer reached her ears, stretching her eyes in the direction they had taken.  Then she turned round slowly and made her way out at the churchyard gate, which opened on to the road close to the front door of the Small House.

“I should like to punch his head,” said Hopkins, the gardener, to himself, as he saw the gig driven away and saw Lily trip after it, that she might see the last of him whom it carried.  “And I wouldn’t think nothing of doing it; no more I wouldn’t,” Hopkins added in his soliloquy.  It was generally thought about the place that Miss Lily was Hopkins’s favourite, though he showed it chiefly by snubbing her more frequently than he snubbed her sister.