We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted to a farm-house, where, I suppose, Mr. Weston purposed to make himself “useful;” for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to ponder his words as I continued my course alone. I had heard before that he had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then was the last and dearest of his early friends; and he had _no home_. I pitied him from my heart: I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently clouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a morose and sullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all her kin. “But,” thought I, “he is not so miserable as I should be under such a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for useful exertion lies before him. He can _make_ friends; and he can make a home too, if he pleases; and, doubtless, he will please some time. God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and make it a happy one—such a home as he deserves to have! And how delightful it would be to—” But no matter what I thought. I began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those who liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature’s heart: but we have some thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to behold, but not our brother-men—not even the best and kindest amongst them. By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and the Murrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to follow them. I found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on the respective merits of the two young officers; but on seeing me Rosalie broke off in the middle of a sentence to exclaim, with malicious glee— “Oh-ho, Miss Grey! you’re come at last, are you? No _wonder_ you lingered so long behind; and no _wonder_ you always stand up so vigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all now!” “Now, come, Miss Murray, don’t be foolish,” said I, attempting a good-natured laugh; “you know such nonsense can make no impression on me.” But she still went on talking such intolerable stuff—her sister helping her with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion—that I thought it necessary to say something in my own justification. “What folly all this is!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Weston’s road happened to be the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a word or two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure you, I never spoke to him before: except once.” “Where? where? and when?” cried they eagerly. “In Nancy’s cottage.” “Ah-ha! you’ve met him there, have you?” exclaimed Rosalie, with exultant laughter. “Ah! now, Matilda, I’ve found out why she’s so fond of going to Nancy Brown’s! She goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston.”