"Not _certainly_, at all!" reply I, with an energetic despondence in my voice; "quite the contrary! most likely not! most likely not the day after either, nor the day after that--" "And if they do not" (with an accent of sincere compassion), "what will you do?" "What I have done to-day, I suppose," I answer dejectedly; "cry till my cheeks are _sore_! You may not believe me" (passing my bare fingers lightly over them as I speak), "but they feel quite _raw_. I wonder" (with a little dismal laugh) "why tears were made _salt_!--they would not blister one half so much if they were fresh water." He has drawn a pace or two nearer to me. In this light one has to look closely at any object that one wishes specially and narrowly to observe; and I myself have pointed out the peculiarities of my countenance to him, so I cannot complain if he scrutinizes me with a lengthy attention. "It is going to be such a _dark_ night!" I say, with a slight shiver; "and if the wind gets up, I know that I shall lie awake all night, thinking that the gen--that Roger is drowned! Do you not think" (looking round apprehensively) "that it is rising already? See how those boughs are waving!" "Not an atom!" reassuringly. We both look for an instant at the silent flower-beds, at the sombre bulk of the house. "If they do not come to-morrow--" begins Frank. "But they _will_!" cry I, petulantly; "they _must_! I cannot do without them! I believe some people do not _mind_ being alone--not even in the evenings, when the furniture cracks and the door-handles rattle. I dare say _you_ do not; but I hate my own company; I have never been used to it. I have always been used to a great deal of noise--_too_ much, I have sometimes thought, but I am sure that I never shall think so again!" "Well, but if they do not--" "You have said that three times," I cry, irritably. "You seem to take a pleasure in saying it. If they do not--well, what?" "I will not say what I was going to say," he answers, shortly. "I shall only get my nose bitten off if I do." "Very well, do not!" reply I, with equal suavity. We walk in silence toward the house, the wet grass is making my long gown drenched and flabby. We have reached the garden-door whence I issued, and by which I shall return. "You must go now, I suppose," say I, reluctantly. "_You_ will be by yourself too, will not you? Tell me" (speaking with lowered confidential tone), "do _your_ chairs and tables ever make odd noises?" "Awful!" he answers, laughing. "I can hardly hear myself speak for them." I laugh too. "You might as well tell me before you go what the remark that I quenched was? One always longs to hear the things that people are _going_ to say, and do not! Have no fear! your nose is quite safe!" "It is nothing much," he answers, with self-conscious stiffness, looking down and poking about the little dark pebbles with his cane; "nothing that you would care about."