“Oh yes, I know all that; and I say it to myself ever so many times. But it seems to make no difference. You canʼt understand, of course, Uncle John, any more than you could jump the river. But I do assure you that sometimes it makes me feel quite desperate. And yet all the time I know how excessively foolish I am. And then I try to argue, but it seems to hurt me here. And then I try not to think of it, but it will come back again, and I am even glad to have it. And then I begin to pity myself, and to be angry with every one else; and after that I get better and whistle a tune, and go jumping. Only I take care not to see him.” “There you are quite right, my dear: and I would strongly recommend you not to see him for a month.” “As if that could make any difference! And he would go and have somebody else. And then I should kill them both.” “Well done, Oriental! Now, will you be guided by me, my dear? I have seen a great deal of the world.” “Yes, no doubt you have, Uncle John. And you are welcome to say just what you like; only donʼt advise me what I donʼt like; but tell the truth exactly.” “Then what I say is this, Eoa: keep away from him altogether—donʼt allow him to see you, even when he wishes it, for a month at least. Hold yourself far above him. He will begin to think of you more and more. Why, you are ten times too good for him. There is not a man in England who might not be proud of you, Eoa, when you have learned a little dignity.” Somehow or other none of the Rosedews appreciated the Garnets. “Yes, I dare say; but donʼt you see, I donʼt want him to be proud of me. I only want him to like me. And I do hate being dignified.” “If you want him to like you, do just what I have advised.” “So I will, Uncle John. Kiss me now, to make it up. Oh, you are such a dear!—donʼt you think a week would do, now?” CHAPTER V. At high noon of a bright cold day in the early part of March, a labourer who had been “frithing,” that is to say, cutting underwood in one of the forest copses, came out into the green track, which could scarce be called a “lane,” to eat his well–earned dinner. As it happened to be a Monday, the poor man had a better dinner than he would see or smell again until the following Sunday. For there, as throughout rural England, a working man, receiving his wages on the Saturday evening, lives upon a sliding scale throughout the dreary week. He has his bit of hot on Sunday, smacking his lips at every morsel; and who shall scold him for staying at home to see it duly boiled, and feeling his heart move with the steaming and savoury pot–lid more kindly than with the dry parson?