"But, uncle, Mr Gresham will be home on the 12th," she said, blushing.
"What! Frank?"
"Yes. Beatrice said he was to be here on the 12th."
"And would you run away from him too, Mary?"
"I do not know: I do not know what to do."
"No; we will have no more running away: I am sorry that you ever did so. It was my fault, altogether my fault; but it was foolish."
"Uncle, I am not happy here." As she said this, she put down the cup which she had held, and, leaning her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands.
"And would you be happier at Boxall Hill? It is not the place makes the happiness."
"No, I know that; it is not the place. I do not look to be happy in any place; but I should be quieter, more tranquil elsewhere than here."
"I also sometimes think that it will be better for us to take up our staves and walk away out of Greshamsbury;—leave it altogether, and settle elsewhere; miles, miles, miles away from here. Should you like that, dearest?"