"I know----" Kitty began to cry again. Everybody was so full of love and pity. "I know, Harry. And perhaps I shall never n--n--never see you again." "And does that make this parting harder?" He turned very red, and laid his precious book of consolation on the table. "Why, of course it does," she replied, wiping her eyes. "You _shall_ see us again," he went on earnestly. "You shall come back with me. Kitty, I will give you one twelvemonth of absence. You know I love you tenderly. But your father's commands must be obeyed. Therefore for a whole year I shall not seek you out. Then, when I come for you, will you return with me, never to go away again?" "Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands, "how joyfully will I return!" The young man took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Divine maid!" he cried. "Fit to grace a coronet, or to make the home of a simple gentleman an Arcadia of pastoral pleasure!" "Do not mock me, Harry," she said, snatching away her hand, "with idle compliments. But forget not to come and carry me away." "Alas!" he said; "how shall I exist--how bear this separation for twelve long months? Oh, divine Kitty! Thou will remain an ever-present idea in my heart." "Harry," she burst out laughing in her tears, "think of the learned Boethius!" So he left her. In half an hour another visitor appeared. This time it was Will. He was in his usual careless disorder; his scarlet coat a good deal stained, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his wig awry, his boots dusty, his neckerchief torn, his hands and cheeks browned by the sun. He carried a horsewhip, and was followed by half-a-dozen dogs, who came crowding into the room after him. "So," he said, sitting down and leaning his chin upon his whipstock, "thou must go, then?" "What do you want with me, Will?" she asked, angry that he should show so little sympathy. "Why," he replied, rubbing his chin with the whipstock, "not much, Kitty. Nancy will come to cry." "Then you can go away, Will." "I came to say, Kitty, that though you do be going to go" (Will easily dropped into country talk), "I shanna forget thee. There!" "Thank you, Will." "As for the matter of that, I love thee--ah! like I love old Rover here." "Thank you again, Will." "And so I've brought along a sixpence--here it is--and we'll break it together." Here he bent and broke the coin with his strong fingers. "My half goes into my pocket--so; and the other half is thine--there." He threw it on the table. "Well, that's done." He stood up, looked at me sorrowfully, and heaved a great sigh. "I doubt I've a done wrong. Hadst been going to stay, a' woulden a' spoke yet awhile. Liberty is sweet--girls are skittish. Well, we'll take a twelvemonth yet. There's no hurry. Plenty time before us. I shall have my liberty for that while. Mayhap I will fetch thee in the spring. Ay, May's the best month to leave the dogs and the birds, though the vermin will begin to swarm--rot 'em! Come, Rover. Good-bye, wench."