“Phillis,” said I, rushing at my subject and interrupting her, “I went a long walk to think over a letter I had this morning—a letter from Canada. You don’t know how it has grieved me.” I held it out to her as I spoke. Her colour changed a little, but it was more the reflection of my face, I think, than because she formed any definite idea from my words. Still she did not take the letter. I had to bid her to read it, before she quite understood what I wished. She sate down rather suddenly as she received it into her hands; and, spreading it on the dresser before her, she rested her forehead on the palms of her hands, her arms supported on the table, her figure a little averted, and her countenance thus shaded. I looked out of the open window; my heart was very heavy. How peaceful it all seemed in the farmyard! Peace and plenty. How still and deep was the silence of the house! Tick-tick went the unseen clock on the wide staircase. I had heard the rustle once, when she turned over the page of thin paper. She must have read to the end. Yet she did not move, or say a word, or even sigh. I kept on looking out of the window, my hands in my pockets. I wonder how long that time really was? It seemed to me interminable—unbearable. At length I looked round at her. She must have felt my look, for she changed her attitude with a quick sharp movement, and caught my eyes. “Don’t look so sorry, Paul,” she said. “Don’t, please. I can’t bear it. There is nothing to be sorry for. I think not, at least. You have not done wrong, at any rate.” I felt that I groaned, but I don’t think she heard me. “And he,—there’s no wrong in his marrying, is there? I’m sure I hope he’ll be happy. Oh! how I hope it!” These last words were like a wail; but I believe she was afraid of breaking down, for she changed the key in which she spoke, and hurried on.