“Certainly,” I answered hastily. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I have really nothing to say. It is only that I liked your sermons so much, and that I wanted to tell you so. I hope you’ll forgive me.” I got up. “Sit down――sit down,” he murmured. “It was a very kind and charming impulse, and I’m glad you yielded to it.” I resumed my seat and he continued to drink his milk. He was quite pleased with me. He asked me to what church I belonged; where I went to school; all kinds of questions. I told him that I thought he must be lonely sitting here by himself, and that he should have a dog, or even a cat. I told him about Tony, and all the wonderful things he could do. Before I came away he made me promise I would come to see him again. Yet just as I was going out a sort of vague suspicion of other things appeared to float into his consciousness. He detained me, with his hand on my shoulder. “When you first came in,” he said, “I thought something perhaps was worrying you, that you had something on your mind.” He paused. For an instant I had seen in him what I had seen when I had listened to him preach; for an instant I was on the point of resuming my seat, and telling him all I had come to tell him, but he himself broke the charm next moment by saying good-night. “And when you come again you won’t be shy?” he added, smiling wanly. He did not accompany me downstairs, but stood on the landing till I had opened the hall-door. And as I pulled it after me, and ran down the steps, I knew I should never go back. CHAPTER XXXVII Spring gave place to summer, and still I kept studiously to my books. I saw less of Owen, for in the afternoons I played cricket, and Owen did not. On the thirteenth of June my examination commenced, and from the first I did well, having good luck with the papers. On Tuesday evening when I went home I had only one more exam. in front of me, and it would take place the following afternoon. After that I should be free for the summer. It was a hot, breathless kind of night, and I did not intend to work too much. I loafed about the shop after tea, talking to Miss Izzy. She had asked me to go to the Free Library to get her a book, but nothing on the list she had given me, though it was a fairly long one, was in, and I had come back with a tale of my own selecting. “You might have got one of Annie Swan’s,” Miss Izzy said, eyeing the work I had chosen, dubiously, “but of course you couldn’t tell what ones I’d read.” “Annie Swan’s?” “Yes; they’re all good. Mr. Spicer mentioned ‘Carlowrie’ from the pulpit on Sunday, and you don’t often hear _him_ praise a novel.” “When he does it’s a spicy one,” said George, who was going out. Miss Izzy took no notice. “I’ve got to meet the girl at a quarter-to-eight, so I can’t stop,” George threw back gaily from the door, which next moment swung after him, as he stepped into the street, fixing a flower in his button-hole.