"She has never once seen me."
"But you have seen her? Answer honestly."
"Why should I not?—Yes, I have seen her—once or twice or so—but never in any way that could annoy her."
"That explains why you have become so well acquainted with the direction of her walks?"
He coloured deeply. "I hope, Phineas, you do not think that—that in any way I should intrude on or offend a lady?"
"Nay, don't take it so seriously—indeed, I meant nothing of the kind. It would be quite natural if a young man like you did use some pains to look at such a 'cunning piece of Nature's handiwork' as that apple-cheeked girl of seventeen."
"Russet apple. She is brown, you know—a real 'nut-brown mayde,'" said John, recovering his gay humour. "Certainly, I like to look at her. I have seen many a face that was more good-looking—never one that looked half so good."
"Sententious that;" yet I could not smile—he spoke with such earnestness. Besides, it was the truth. I myself would have walked half-way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why not he?
"But, John, you never told me that you had seen her again!"
"Because you never asked me."