But that was going too far. I couldn't stand it. Something in his manner and speech angered me; and I thought how he had led me into saddening my father's last days—how perhaps even, but for him, father might have been living still, and mother well, and I a happy girl in the dear old home! No; that was going too far! "Good-bye," I said. "My train will start soon." And I got up and walked away. But he was at my side. "Kitty—Kitty—I didn't mean to vex you," says he, in a sort of wheedling manner. "Just say you're not vexed. Say we can be friends still." "Friends!" I said, and I turned to look at him. I hadn't a wish for any more soft words. A change seemed to have come over me. Perhaps it had been coming long, though I didn't find it out till then. "Friends!" I said. "Well, yes," said he. "We've been friends, haven't we?" And I said—I couldn't help it, for the words seemed to be squeezed out of me, I thinking of my poor father— "No! You've been the worst enemy I ever had." I didn't add another word. "Least said—" was sounding in a whisper somewhere. I had to say enough, but not too much. There's never any good in piling on a lot of words, if one dozen are all that's wanted. "Kitty!" says he, as if he was confounded. I didn't speak. "You don't mean that," says he, wheedling again. But I held my tongue. "Kitty, I do assure you I couldn't help it," says he. "I didn't mean to take you in." "When you said it was lent—and then to have sold it!" says I slowly. "Lent! Sold it!" says he, looking uncomfortable, and then he gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, I see—you mean that wretched watch," says he. And I just said "Yes." "But I thought you meant something else," says he. "Mary has told you—" "Mary has told me nothing at all," I said. And I turned and walked away once more. He didn't follow me this time. I saw he was all taken aback like, to find I thought so much of his dishonesty. The train was waiting, and I got into a third-class carriage. I felt so glad that talk was over, and so glad I hadn't said more. Mother would be pleased, I thought—some day when I could tell her. It wouldn't do to speak Walter Russell's name in her hearing yet awhile. I had to sit a good while in the carriage, waiting; but Walter didn't come near me again. Presently I caught sight of him sauntering along the platform; and then a smart sort of girl joined him. He put his arm through hers, and she laughed and joked in a shrill voice. I didn't like her look. After that they went out of sight. I believed it was the same girl I had seen him speak to, the day I drove from Littleburgh to Deane Rectory; but I could not be sure. I hadn't noticed her then so much as him. The train started, and there was nobody in the compartment with me. I had it to myself. Presently I found myself saying aloud— "That is all over!"