"Will you please to stop; I want to speak to you," he said, in a voice half choked with excitement.
Mary stood still. She lifted her eyes for a moment, then let them fall, but John could see that they were tired and swollen with crying, and that her face, generally so happy and healthy with all its quietness, looked pale and worn, as if she had gone through some great grief. There was no softening in that glance at John, and no change of colour. It was sorrowful, but it was also hard; it checked the young man's impulse to draw her close to him and make up their quarrel on the spot.
"What's this I hear about service, Polly?" he said, with a timidity quite strange to his character.
"Oh! that don't signify to any one but myself," the girl answered coldly. "I thought you had got some news about Lily, perhaps."
"So I have. She's found:" and John hurriedly poured out the story. He was so puzzled by Mary's manner to himself that it was almost a relief to stand there and talk on some other subject.
"Well! I'm glad to hear it," said Mary, when he paused, and she began to walk on.
"What are you in such a hurry about?" murmured John, his shyness returning.
"What's the use of standing here?" Mary retorted.
"Look here," said John desperately, "come with me a bit the other way. I want to know the meaning of all this, please."
"All what?" said the girl; but she made no objection to turning round with him and walking the other way. He did not speak for a few yards, walking beside her with his head bent and his hands in his pockets. He stopped at the corner stile of the churchyard, went up and leaned upon it. Once more the grass looked brightly green, a yellow light was shining from the west; but there were no children's voices to break the stillness now, and the shadow of the great yews was gloomy.