He did not come till it was nearly dusk. I was at the window, looking at my four poplar-trees, as they pointed skywards like long fingers stretching up out of the gloom, when I saw him crossing the common. At first I was going to meet him at the gate, but on second thoughts I remained within, and only stirred up the fire, which could be seen shining ever so far.
"What a bright blaze!— Nay, you have not waited dinner, I hope?— Tea—yes, that's far better; I have had such a long walk, and am so tired."
The words were cheerful, so was the tone. TOO cheerful—oh, by far! The sort of cheerfulness that strikes to a friend's heart, like the piping of soldiers as they go away back from a newly-filled grave.
"Where have you been, John?"
"All over Nunnely Hill. I must take you there—such expansive views. As Mrs. Tod informed me, quoting some local ballad, which she said was written by an uncle of hers:
"'There you may spy
Twenty-three churches with the glass and the eye.'
Remarkable fact, isn't it?"
Thus he kept on talking all tea-time, incessantly, rapidly talking. It was enough to make one weep.
After tea I insisted on his taking my arm-chair; saying, that after such a walk, in that raw day, he must be very cold.
"Not the least—quite the contrary—feel my hand." It was burning. "But I am tired—thoroughly tired."