‘I am very sorry,’ she said. ‘But why should you get up and stamp about? That will not make things any better. Sit down and tell me about it. Poor Roger! are you really going away?’ Now, this was not the tone he wished or expected; for he was far from feeling himself to be poor Roger, because he was going away. Offended dignity strove with anxious love in his mind, and he felt, with, perhaps, a vulgar yet very reasonable instinct, that his actual dignity and importance made the best foundation for his love. ‘It is not so much to be regretted, Cara, except for one thing. I shall enter upon good pay at once. That is worth sacrificing something for; and I don’t care so much, after all, for just leaving England. What does it matter where a fellow is, so long as he is happy? But it’s about being happy that I want to speak to you.’ ‘I think it matters a great deal where one is,’ said Cara; but she refrained, out of politeness to him, who had no choice in the matter, to sing the praises of home. ‘I have been so used to people wandering about,’ she said, apologetically; ‘papa, you know; but I am glad that you don’t mind; and, of course, to have money of your own will be very pleasant. I am afraid they will all feel it very much at the Rectory.’ ‘Oh, _they_! they don’t care. It will be one out of the way. Ah, Cara, if I only could think _you_ would be sorry.’ ‘Of course I shall be sorry, Roger,’ she said, with gentle seriousness. ‘There is no one I shall miss so much. I will think of you often in the woods, and when there are garden parties. As you are going, I am almost glad not to be there this year.’ ‘Ah, Cara! if you would but say a little more, how happy you might make me,’ said the young man, self-deceived, with honest moisture in his eyes. ‘Then I will say as much more as you like,’ she said, bending forward towards him with a little soft colour rising in her cheeks. ‘I shall think of you always on Sundays, and how glad we used to be when you came; and if you have time to write to me, I will always answer; and I will think of you at that prayer in the Litany for those who travel by land and water.’ ‘Something more yet--only one thing more!’ cried poor Roger, getting down upon one knee somehow, and laying his hand on the arm of her chair. His eyes were quite full, his young face glowing: ‘Say you love me ever so little, Cara! I have never thought of anyone in my life but you. Whenever I hoped or planned anything it was always for you. I never had a penny: I never could show what I felt, anyhow: but now I shall be well enough off, and able to keep----’ ‘Hush!’ said Cara, half frightened; ‘don’t look so anxious. I never knew you so restless before; one moment starting up and walking about, another down on your knees. Why should you go down on your knees to me? Of course I like you, Roger dear; have we not been like brother and sister?’