"Will you change seats with me, Miss March?—The sun will not reach your eyes here."
She declined, refusing to punish any one for her convenience.
"It would not be punishment," said John, so gravely that one did not recognize it for a "pretty speech" till it had passed—and went on with their conversation. In the course of it he managed so carefully, and at the same time so carelessly, to interpose his broad hat between the sun and her, that the fiery old king went down in splendour before she noticed that she had been thus guarded and sheltered. Though she did not speak—why should she? of such a little thing,—yet it was one of those "little things" which often touch a woman more than any words.
Miss March rose. "I should greatly like to hear your stream and its wonderful singing." (John Halifax had been telling how it held forth to me during my long, lonely days)—"I wonder what it would say to me? Can we hear it from the bottom of this field?"
"Not clearly; we had better go into the wood." For I knew John would like that, though he was too great a hypocrite to second my proposal by a single word.
Miss March was more single-minded, or else had no reason for being the contrary. She agreed to my plan with childish eagerness. "Papa, you wouldn't miss me—I shall not be away five minutes. Then, Mr. Fletcher, will you go with me?"
"And I will stay beside Mr. March, so that he will not be left alone," said John, reseating himself.
What did the lad do that for?—why did he sit watching us so intently, as I led Miss March down the meadow, and into the wood? It passed my comprehension.
The young girl walked with me, as she talked with me, in perfect simplicity and frankness, free from the smallest hesitation. Even as the women I have known have treated me all my life—showing me that sisterly trust and sisterly kindness which have compensated in a measure for the solitary fate which it pleased Heaven to lay upon me; which, in any case, conscience would have forced me to lay upon myself—that no woman should ever be more to me than a sister.
Yet I watched her with pleasure—this young girl, as she tripped on before me, noticing everything, enjoying everything. She talked to me a good deal too about myself, in her kindly way, asking what I did all day?—and if I were not rather dull sometimes, in this solitary country lodging?