Mary paused a minute; then she answered him as quietly as he spoke. "It's not me as would ever wish you to leave Markwood, John. I never did think much of London. If you have a nice home in the country, stop there—that's my idea. Never you think of London to please me."
"What shall I do to please you, Mary?"
"Stop as you are."
"Well, that's easy done," said the young man, not without a shade of disappointment in his tone.
There was another silence. Mary did not seem to care to speak; but her tears were all gone, and she looked happy and at peace. John, on the contrary, seemed a little troubled. He felt himself so bound by circumstances that he could not, in fairness to Mary and to other people, tell her all that was in his heart just then. Yet, when he found her crying, it had been impossible not to say something. And now he could hardly leave her without saying more.
"Listen to me a bit," he said again. "There ain't the girl in England to match you, Mary; and if I haven't told you so sooner, it ain't that I haven't thought so, you know. I've thought a lot more about you than you've any notion of; and look here, I did feel as if you hadn't no right to be crying just now, and me not to know what it were all about."
He paused, as if waiting for an answer.
"Never mind that now—I was only silly," said the girl.
"I tell you, you're a sight too good for me," John went on. "You've a right to look higher than me; but if I thought you liked me a bit, I'd ask you something in spite of it all."
Mary said nothing, though he seemed to expect her to speak. It was impossible to break in with words upon the happiest moment her life had known till then; how happy, she did not understand till afterwards, as people may measure the height of a cliff from the sands at its foot.