“For _some_ things only—I wonder what should make you regret it?” I was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had only one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret, which he had no business to trouble me about. “Why,” said I—“why should you suppose that I dislike the place?” “You told me so yourself,” was the decisive reply. “You said, at least, that you could not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had no friend here, and no possibility of making one—and, besides, I know you _must_ dislike it.” “But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full of enemies, if—” but no; that sentence must not be continued—I paused, and hastily added,—“And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.” “Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil and companion?” “I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted with her sister.” “I can imagine that.” “Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good—better in one respect.” “What is that?” “She’s honest.” “And the other is not?” “I should not call her _dis_honest; but it must be confessed she’s a little artful.” “_Artful_ is she?—I saw she was giddy and vain—and now,” he added, after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too; but so excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness. Yes,” continued he, musingly, “that accounts for some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.” After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went back and disappeared down Moss Lane, the entrance of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly I did not regret this circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last—that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. He had not breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to—capable of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse—was enough.