Thus—save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on his mare's back, and led me far away, over common, and valley, and hill, for miles, only coming back at twilight—save those two blithe days, I spent the week in dignified solitude, and was very thankful for Sunday.
We determined to make it a long, lovely, country Sunday; so we began it at six a.m. John took me a new walk across the common, where—he said, in answer to my question—we were quite certain NOT to meet Miss March.
"Do you experimentalize on the subject, that you calculate her paths with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know you have been out most mornings?"
"Morning is the only time I have for walking, you know, Phineas."
"Ah, true! You have little pleasure at Enderley. I almost wish we could go home."
"Don't think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home."
I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was in earnest; that whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was the one uppermost in his mind.
"Well, we'll stay—that is, if you are happy, John."
"Thoroughly happy; I like the dashing rides to Norton Bury. Above all, I like coming back. The minute I begin to climb Enderley Hill, the tan-yard, and all belonging to it, drops off like an incubus, and I wake into free, beautiful life. Now, Phineas, confess; is not this common a lovely place, especially of a morning?"
"Ay," said I, smiling at his energy. "But you did not tell me whether you had met Miss March again."