Whether it was because Theresa had told her papa that I was in love with Conny, or because he was too fastidious to refer to the subject, my uncle never once throughout my visit had a word to say about his brother’s scheme. He was highly gratified--as was plainly visible in his broad countenance--to see how well I got on with Theresa; but this satisfaction I considered entirely the result of his hospitable feelings. Whilst his daughter misbehaved herself and snubbed me, he had spoken in her praise, for then she stood in need of it; but on her dropping her mocking manners and exhibiting herself as an agreeable, lady-like girl, he said no more about her, good nor bad. It was indeed as if he had exclaimed--“There she is, my boy: she is now herself; and you must find out what you want to know without any help from me. If you fall in love with her, _bon_; if she falls in love with you, _bon_ again. If you don’t fall in love with each other, still _bon_. I’ll not trumpet her praises. I am entirely at your service when you want a companion; but I am decidedly unwilling to lose time I might be very usefully employing, in helping a young man and a young woman to love each other.” I thought none the worse of him for holding aloof from his daughter’s and my business. When the day at last came on which I believed it necessary to return to Updown, he was heartily grieved to part with me. We had been much together, and I knew he would miss me. He had always found me a good listener, ready to laugh loudly at his stories, whether I had heard them before or not. I invariably, moreover, exhibited a great interest in his books, of which he was even prouder than he was of his recollections of the great men of his young days. There was certainly no one in the neighbourhood who could take my place after I was gone. Theresa was also very sorry to part with me; but there was nothing in her behaviour to cause me to imagine I had produced the least sentimental impression. As I stood talking to her in the hall, while the carriage was preparing to drive me to the station, I said: “If I write to you, Theresa, will you answer my letter?” “Certainly I will,” she answered. “I hope you will write. I shall be very glad to hear from you.” “I have passed a most delightful time,” said I, looking into her expressive eyes. “I am glad to hear you say so. Before you leave me, you must let me know that I am thoroughly forgiven for the outrageous reception I gave you.” “Do you think it possible I could bear resentment against you? You must forgive me for ever having given you the trouble to assume so disagreeable a part.” I added a little bashfully: “it would have been better for my peace of mind, perhaps, had you persisted in being disagreeable.” The faintest flush came into her cheeks, and she immediately said: “Write to me when Conny has forgiven you for the wrong construction you have put upon her silence.”