“Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt. But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen you till to-morrow.” But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this caress gave the lie to her last words. “No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little wicket that led up to the parsonage. “Indeed, you shall not. I could not behave myself properly if you did.” “But I don’t want you to behave properly.” “Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.” “Surely I may shake hands with your father.” “Not to-night—not till—John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell him at once.” “Certainly,” said he. “And then you shall see him to-morrow. Let me see—at what hour shall I bid you come?” “To breakfast.” “No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.” “I hate cold pie.” “What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after breakfast. Come down—come down at two, or three; and then I will go back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her to-morrow;” and so at last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own. When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good. “Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would say if I were to leave you?” “Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment. “I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I to go from you?” “Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and thinking of nothing else.