It was a rebuff; but still—she would keep down her girlish pride.
"I hope you are not going away from the country?" said she.
He did not meet her look; his eyes were fixed on the ground.
"What is there to keep me in it?" was his answer.
"Why, what is there to keep any of us in it?" she said. "Heaven's mercy, if we were all to run away when we found something or another not quite to our liking, what a fine thing that would be! Nay, I hope there is no truth in it," she continued, looking at him, and not without some memories of their escapades together when they were boy and girl. "'Twould grieve many—indeed it would. I pray you think better of it. If for no other, for my sake; we used to be better friends."
There were two figures now approaching.
"Oh, here come Widow Clemms and her daughter," she said; "a rare couple. 'Twill be meat and drink to them to carry back a story. No matter. Now, fare you well; but pray think better of it; there be many that would grieve if you went away."
He stole a look at her as she passed on: perhaps there was a trifle more than usual of color in her radiant and sunny face, because of the approach of the two women. It was a lingering kind of look that he sent after her; and then he, too, turned and went on his way—cursing the parson.