Then came Myles’s other difficulty. He did not know whether boldly to go and call at Mr. Blisset’s, as he longed and desired to do, or whether to remain away. He plagued himself with wondering what she thought about it, and then tried to believe that she had perhaps not even heard of it--her life was so very retired, she saw and heard so little of what was going on outside. Then he might go? But suppose she did know, and he appeared as if he came to be thanked and made a hero of? He contradicted himself ten times a day; decided to go--to stay--to go--and stayed because he absolutely could not decide which was best. So the days went on until Saturday, and he had not had a glimpse of her--only the remembrance of her grateful eyes and the pressure of her hand, as she bade him good-bye at her uncle’s gate before it had all happened. When Saturday afternoon came, his longing to see her was growing almost unbearable, and he had the sensation that if he went out of the house, his feet would turn mechanically towards Blake Street. * * * * * It was Saturday afternoon; the clockhands pointed to five; Mary’s ‘cleaning’ was over, and the house was quiet. Edmund lay upon his sofa with a headache, and Myles was softly reading to him, glad of some monotonous occupation which should divert his thoughts somewhat from the topic which at present tyrannised over them. Edmund had been reading in a magazine about the works of the Brontë sisters, and Myles had procured him ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’ from the free library. ‘Wuthering Heights’ lay as yet untouched; it had not yet laid its strong and dreadful spell on the boy’s spirit. They were deep in ‘Jane Eyre.’ It proved a spell which caused Edmund to forget his headache, and enchained the attention of Myles himself, with its passionate expression of the equality of soul and soul, and its eager conviction of the supremacy of mind over the differences of rank or place. Its burning radicalism went straight to Myles’s soul, while its deep poetry touched Edmund’s inmost heart. At this moment they were wandering with ‘Jane’ over the summer moors, homeless, friendless, foodless, penniless; and they had forgotten all outside things with her, as she reposed herself beneath the broad sky, on the friendly bosom of her mother--Nature. ‘Hist!’ said Edmund, suddenly, ‘there’s a knock.’ Myles paused. Some one knocked at the front door. Mary had heard it, and rose from her rocking-chair. ‘Thee go on wi’ thi’ readin’,’ said she, going out; and they heard her open the door, and a low voice--a woman’s voice--ask her some question. With an inarticulate exclamation, Myles half rose, the book open in his hand, and as Edmund was in the act of inquiring what was the matter, Mary came in again, looking rather bewildered, and saying, as she turned to some one who followed her, ‘Myles, here’s a lady wants to speak to thee.’