“Patience!” he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have saved himself any such attempt. “Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.” He gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage. During the whole of that day she said no word to any one of what had occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she was unhappy; nor during the evening was there any expression in her face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour. But she would not see him. “Laws, miss, you ain’t a quarrelled with your beau?” the poor girl said. “No, not quarrelled,” she said; “but give him that.” It was a scrap of paper, containing a word or two in pencil. “It is better that we should not meet again. God bless you.” And from that day to this, now more than ten years, they never have met. “Papa,” she said to her father that afternoon, “dear papa, do not be angry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest, you and I will not be separated.” It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man’s surprise and how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was given for anger with any one. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had on that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least he was relieved from his engagement. “Patty, my darling child,” he said, “may God grant that it be for the best!” “It is for the best,” she answered stoutly. “For this place I am fit; and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.” On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the following morning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off, having heard the wheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his way to the station,—she walked up to the Combe. “He has told you, I suppose?” said she. “Yes,” said Miss Le Smyrger. “And I will never see him again unless he asks your pardon on his knees. I have told him so. I would not even give him my hand as he went.” “But why so, thou kindest one? The fault was mine more than his.” “I understand. I have eyes in my head,” said the old maid. “I have watched him for the last four or five days. If you could have kept the truth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been at your feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.” “But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.”