"Kitty," he said one day, all of a sudden, "I've got to go to-morrow." Mother had sent me to a shop for some thread, and Mr. Russell came upon me just outside the station, in the little lane that ran round the back of our garden. I suppose he must have been expecting me there. Nobody else was in sight. We stood under the high hedge, on a patch of grass, and I can remember now the feel of the grass under my feet, and the sunset light that came through the hedge opposite, and how handsome Mr. Russell looked—at least, I thought so then; but, you know, girls' tastes do change as they get to womanhood, and it isn't only black hair and eyes and an air of being somebody that makes good looks—more especial if it's a case of being nobody. "Must you?" was all I said, and I turned queer all over, as if I was ready to drop. "Yes; it's a 'must,'" says he. "I shall have to be at work again in a few days, and there's a lot of things to do first. I've been here too long as it is." "But you couldn't help it, with Mary so ill," I said. He gave a sort of little laugh. "Well—yes," says he. "But Mary's been getting on all right some days past. You don't think it's that has kept me, do you? eh, Kitty?" says he. "Can't you guess what has been the real tie? Not good old Mary, but somebody younger and prettier and sweeter?" Yes, I guessed what he meant, of course. I couldn't do otherwise, and the colour came back to my face. "It is very hard to say good-bye to that somebody, I can tell you," said he. "But never mind. You'll soon see me again." "How soon?" I asked, with such a heart-sinking: for it seemed as if all the world was going when he went. "Oh, soon," he said. "As soon as ever I can get away. Those little school brats take up a lot of time, you know. But I shouldn't wonder if I had to come and fetch Mary soon." "Will it be next week?" I tried to say. "Next week! Dear, no! not so soon as that. Why, the doctor says it won't be safe for Mary to go by train for another month; and I mightn't be able to get away just then, you know. But I'll come, never you fear! Why, Kitty, you dear little pretty silly thing," says he, "I'm not worth crying for!" It was true, but did he mean it? I've often thought of his face since, as it was that moment, and wondered if the look meant real pity or was only just put on. "I shan't know how to get on without you," I whispered. "Well, but it won't be for long. I'll be sure to come again," says he. Then he added, "Mind you keep my secret, Kitty!" "Mayn't I just tell mother?" I begged. "Tell your mother!" he said; and I couldn't understand his face. "Tell her what?" says he. I was struck dumb. For what had I to tell? That he wished me to be his wife? But he had never asked me if I would, never once outright! That he called me "his little Kitty?" But he had no right to call me so.