"I will be a traveller,--a foot traveller." he often said to himself. "I must carry a light bundle!" It made him heavy at heart when he contemplated the possibility of his being chained to a wife, who would demand a part of his being for herself. And a _blind_ wife! One that he must always fear to leave for a moment! Here in the village, where all went on its simple way, and to which she had been accustomed since her childhood, _here_ she was protected from all the confusing accidents which she could not fail to encounter in the town. So he persuaded himself that he should do _her_ an injustice if he married her: whether he grieved _her_ or not by his determination, was a point that he avoided considering. He expressed himself still more openly when he departed. On the last day, when he had embraced his parents, and had been told that Mary was in the garden, he left a farewell for her, and with beating heart went down the village street, and then crossed, sideways, over the fields towards the forest. The garden opened into the fields too, and his nearest way would have been through a little wicket-gate. He made a wide _détour_. But when he reached the fields, he was unable to follow the narrow path through the springing corn without casting one glance round; so he stood still in the mild sunshine, and looked back over the huts and the houses. Behind the hedge which surrounded his father's garden, he saw the slender figure of the blind girl. Her face was turned towards him, but she dreamed not that he was so near her. Hot and hasty sprang the tears to his eyes; but he repressed them with a powerful effort. Then he sprang like a madman over the ditches and paths back to the hedge. She started. "Farewell, Mary!" he said, with a clear voice, "I am going away again, perhaps for a year!" He passed his trembling hand over her forehead and temples. "Farewell! You are going?" she said. "One thing I beg of you,--write oftener to your parents; your mother longs for it so; and send me a greeting, too, sometimes." "Yes;" he answered, absently. Then he departed. "Clement!" she cried, once again, after he had left her. He heard her, but did not look round. "It is well that he did not hear me," she said gently to herself. "And what had I to say to him?" CHAPTER VI. From that day the son never remained long at his father's house. Each time he came he found his father harsher and more impatient--his mother ever with the same love, but more reserved towards him--Mary, tranquil, but silent when the men spoke; she also showed herself but seldom.