"Never," said Jean. Then she turned round and faced the young man. "Charlie, you have no business here. Go back to your uncle, and to your farm. You have been here three weeks. You are doing no fishing. You are wasting your time and other people's. And—and I'm quite tired of the sight of you!"
"Say that again," said Charlie, trying to look injured. "Who brings you London papers, and rabbits, and trout? Who talks to you when you are silent, and smooths your frowns away, and is ready to dry your tears at any moment of the day? Who is ready to lie down this blessed moment on the ground for your Highness to trample upon and walk over? Now come, Jean, as a man and a—a brother, I protest against such a rude, ungracious speech."
"I mean it," said Jean, with a grave face. "I don't want you here any longer. You hinder me in my work. I have been neglecting it lately, and life isn't made up of walks and talks in orchards and fields."
Then he held out his hand.
"Goodbye," he said. "I am going, but we haven't done with each other yet, Jean."
He slammed the door behind him, and strode out of the house.
Jean went on painting, and quite expected him to put in an appearance when tea-time came round, but Michael enlightened her—
"I met Oxton on his way to the station," he said. "Hasn't he gone away rather suddenly? He had his luggage with him, and wished me goodbye."
"Why, he promised to help me with my bees to-morrow," said Chris, in tones of dismay. "Did you know he was going, Jean?"
"I told him he was wasting his time here," said Jean.