"I love his goodness," said she, just as calmly as before. "And I love him for loving me. I wish he was happy. I hope no harm will come to him. I would do everything for him,—but"—and here her voice fell—"I don't love him as Jane loved."
"Jane who?" I asked, in surprise.
"Jane Eyre."
Here was a dilemma for me. What should I say next? What business had I, meddling with a young girl's heart? I had been almost sure of finding soundings, yet here I was in deep water! And, with all my pains, what had I accomplished?
She arose, and moved towards the house. I walked along by her side, without speaking.
"I'm going away to-morrow," said she, as we reached the gate, "to make a visit at the old place; then everybody will be happier."
It was my turn then to be silent,—for I was trying to take in the idea that there was to be no Mary Ellen in the house. She had occupied our thoughts so long, had been so prominent an actor in our daily life,—how we should miss her!
"Oh, no," I said, calmly,—for I had thought away all my surprise,—"we shall all miss you very much."
And there we parted.
She left us the next morning, for a visit to her old home.