not I be in a pretty way?' And he went off to bed, chuckling to
himself: 'If I were only a fool!'

The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden,
and sought her out.

'I have been thinking about getting married,' he began abruptly;
'and after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it's

not worthwhile.'
She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindly

appearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an
angel, and she looked down again upon the ground in silence. He

could see her tremble.
'I hope you don't mind,' he went on, a little taken aback. 'You

ought not. I have turned it all over, and upon my soul there's
nothing in it. We should never be one whit nearer than we are just

now, and, if I am a wise man, nothing like so happy.'
'It is unnecessary to go round about with me,' she said. 'I very

well remember that you refused to commit yourself; and now that I
see you were mistaken, and in reality have never cared for me, I

can only feel sad that I have been so far misled.'
'I ask your pardon,' said Will stoutly; 'you do not understand my

meaning. As to whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave
that to others. But for one thing, my feeling is not changed; and

for another, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole
life and character something different from what they were. I mean

what I say; no less. I do not think getting married is worth
while. I would rather you went on living with your father, so that

I could walk over and see you once, or maybe twice a week, as
people go to church, and then we should both be all the happier

between whiles. That's my notion. But I'll marry you if you
will,' he added.

'Do you know that you are insulting me?' she broke out.
'Not I, Marjory,' said he; 'if there is anything in a clear

conscience, not I. I offer all my heart's best affection; you can
take it or want it, though I suspect it's beyond either your power

or mine to change what has once been done, and set me fancy-free.
I'll marry you, if you like; but I tell you again and again, it's

not worth while, and we had best stay friends. Though I am a quiet
man I have noticed a heap of things in my life. Trust in me, and

take things as I propose; or, if you don't like that, say the word,
and I'll marry you out of hand.'

There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy,
began to grow angry in consequence.

'It seems you are too proud to say your mind,' he said. 'Believe
me that's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can a man

be more downright or honourable, to a woman than I have been? I
have said my say, and given you your choice. Do you want me to

marry you? or will you take my friendship, as I think best? or have
you had enough of me for good? Speak out for the dear God's sake!

You know your father told you a girl should speak her mind in these
affairs.'

She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word,
walked rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house,

leaving Will in some confusion as to the result. He walked up and
down the garden, whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped

and contemplated the sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to
the tail of the weir and sat there, looking foolishly in the water.

All this dubiety and perturbation was so foreign to his nature and
the life which he had resolutely chosen for himself, that he began

to regret Marjory's arrival. 'After all,' he thought, 'I was as
happy as a man need be. I could come down here and watch my fishes

all day long if I wanted: I was as settled and contented as my old
mill.'

Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no
sooner were all three at table than she made her father a speech,

with her eyes fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of
embarrassment or distress.

'Father,' she began, 'Mr. Will and I have been talking things over.
We see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he

has agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be
no more than my very good friend, as in the past. You see, there

is no shadow of a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great
deal of him in the future, for his visits will always be welcome in

our house. Of course, father, you will know best, but perhaps we
should do better to leave Mr. Will's house for the present. I

believe, after what has passed, we should hardly be agreeable
inmates for some days.'

Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from the first,
broke out upon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised one hand

with an appearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere
and contradict. But she checked him at once looking up at him with

a swift glance and an angry flush upon her cheek.
'You will perhaps have the good grace,' she said, 'to let me

explain these matters for myself.'
Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the

ring of her voice. He held his peace, concluding that there were
some things about this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he

was exactly right.
The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this

was no more than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before
night; and when he was dislodged from that position, he went on to

argue that where there was no quarrel there could be no call for a
separation; for the good man liked both his entertainment and his

host. It was curious to see how the girl managed them, saying
little all the time, and that very quietly, and yet twisting them

round her finger and insensibly leading them wherever she would by
feminine tact and generalship. It scarcely seemed to have been her

doing - it seemed as if things had merely so fallen out - that she
and her father took their departure that same afternoon in a farm-

cart, and went farther down the valley, to wait, until their own
house was ready for them, in another hamlet. But Will had been

observing closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and
resolution. When he found himself alone he had a great many

curious matters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and
solitary, to begin with. All the interest had gone out of his

life, and he might look up at the stars as long as he pleased, he
somehow failed to find support or consolation. And then he was in

such a turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He had been puzzled and
irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could not keep himself from

admiring it. He thought he recognised a fine, perverse angel in
that still soul which he had never hitherto" target="_blank" title="ad.至今，迄今">hithertosuspected; and though

he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with his own life
of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently

desiring to possess it. Like a man who has lived among shadows and
now meets the sun, he was both pained and delighted.

As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; now
pluming himself on the strength of his determination, now despising

his timid and silly caution. The former was, perhaps, the true
thought of his heart, and represented the regular tenor of the

man's reflections; but the latter burst forth from time to time
with an unrulyviolence, and then he would forget all

consideration, and go up and down his house and garden or walk
among the fir-woods like one who is beside himself with remorse.

To equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters was
intolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it to an

end. So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes,
took a thorn switch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the

river. As soon as he had taken his determination, he had regained
at a bound his customary peace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright