"Long ago when I was a girl," she said once.
"Long ago?" I echo incredulously,—"not surely?"
"Ah, but yes; you haven't seen me in the daylight," with a soft little laugh. "Do you know what the gypsies say? 'Never judge a woman or a ribbon by candle-light.' They might have said moonlight equally well."
She rises as she speaks, and I feel an overpowering wish to have her put out her hand. But she does not; she only takes the work-basket and a book, and says "good-night" with an inclination of her little head.
I go over and stand next her chair; I don't like to sit in it, but I like to put my hand where her head leant, and fancy, if she were there, how she would look up.
I woke next morning with a curious sense of pleasurable excitement; I whistled from very lightness of heart as I dressed. When I got down I found the landlady clearing away her breakfast things; I felt disappointed, and resolved to be down earlier in future. I didn't feel inclined to try the minnow; I put them in a tub in the yard, and tried to read and listen for her step. I dined alone; the day dragged terribly. I did not like to ask about her; I had a notion she might not like it. I spent the evening on the river; I might have filled a good basket, but I let the beggars rest: after all, I had caught fish enough to stock all the rivers in Great Britain; there are other things than trout in the world. I sit and smoke a pipe where she caught me last night. If I half close my eyes I can see hers, and her mouth in the smoke: that is one of the curious charms of baccy,—it helps to reproduce brain pictures. After a bit, I think perhaps she has left. I get quite feverish at the thought, and hasten back. I must ask. I look up at the window as I pass; there is surely a gleam of white. I throw down my traps and hasten up. She is leaning with her arms on the window-ledge, staring out into the gloom. I could swear I caught a suppressed sob as I entered. I cough, and she turns quickly and bows slightly. A bonnet and gloves and lace affair and a lot of papers are lying on the table. I am awfully afraid she is going. I say,—
"Please don't let me drive you away, it is so early yet. I half expected to see you on the river."
"Nothing so pleasant. I have been up in town [the tears have certainly got into her voice] all day; it was so hot and dusty. I am tired out."
The little servant brings in the lamp and a tray, with a bottle of lemonade. "Mistress hasn't any lemons, 'm; will this do?"
"Yes," she says wearily, she is shading her eyes with her hand; "anything, I am fearfully thirsty."