‘Ah,’ said the farmer, gazing at the page doubtfully. ‘Bithey now do only put it once—it be a matter o’ taste, I suppose. Well, now, I’ll put my mark.’ He ground his pen slowly into the paper, horizontally and perpendicularly, and remained gazing at it with a certain modest pride. ‘There, shut ’en up now, and write his name outside.’ Rosalie obeyed, and held out the document towards Isaac, but as he was about to take it she drew it back, a deep flush overspreading her face. After a moment’s hesitation, however, she again tendered it to him. ‘There—take it,’ she said, with a note of sharpness in her voice which would have struck a more acute observer than Isaac; but he duly pocketed it without noticing that anything was amiss. Left to herself she sat for a moment or two in deep thought, her chin propped upon her hands; then suddenly rising, rushed out into the yard. ‘Mr. Sharpe!’ she called. ‘Isaac!’ But the farmer’s broad back was already vanishing down the lane. Evidently her voice failed to reach him as he did not turn his head. Rosalie stood looking after him, without making further attempts to attract his attention, and then slowly returned to the house. Why should she call him back, after all—what need was there for her thus to disturb herself? Could she help writing the letter exactly as he wished; and how foolish were the qualms of conscience which the remembrance of certain phrases in it evoked. It was his letter, not hers: it was he who had insisted on stating that she wished Richard to return—she had never authorised him to do so. If Richard did come back she could not be blamed for it. If he did come back! Again supporting her throbbing head with her hands, she tried to reason with herself, but the turmoil in heart and brain for a time forbade any consecutive train of ideas. During the long blank days which had passed since Richard’s departure, and often in the course of the weary, restless nights, this thought had constantly recurred to her with a never-failing stab:—_He has gone_—_he will never come back_! And now, if he did come back—if he came back even for a little while! If she might just see him again, if it were only to be once or twice! At the mere suggestion she was conscious of a lifting of the load which had been crushing her. If he were made to know, through no fault of hers but rather against her will, that she did wish him to return—she who had let him go forth without a word to stay him—if he even guessed that she longed to see him—oh, it would be sweet to think he knew, that he would henceforth judge her less harshly, that he would realise how hard had been her struggle!