‘Because, of course, you will always be a lady, and I shall perhaps be a rough kind of working man.’ John laughed in spite of himself at the idea, which did not frighten him at all. ‘Mr. Cattley says one has to go and work at the foundry like any working man.’ ‘Likely that I shouldn’t have anything to say to you! Why, that is what I should enjoy,’ said Elly. ‘Have you got all your books? Well, then, we’ll say good-bye in concert. Good-bye, dear old place! Of course I shall come back to you often, but Jack most likely will not come back for a very long time. I hope when he does he’ll be a good engineer, and be building a new Eddystone, or something of that kind: and I hope he will never be such a fool as to think that people will have nothing to say to him. We two schoolfellows will always be friends whatever happens, and wherever we go. You shall always tell everything to me, Jack, just as you always did in Mr. Cattley’s dear old study. Now, that is a promise, mind.’ ‘Yes, Elly,’ said John, ‘but you ought to promise the same, that you will tell everything to me.’ ‘Oh, girls are different,’ said Elly. They walked out, carrying with them their burdens of books. It did not occur to John that he should offer to carry hers for her, or treat her otherwise than on the footing of perfect equality which they had hitherto occupied. Nor did she think of it. They stood upon no ceremony with each other. Elly’s instinct told her that to promise entire confidence was not on her side so simple, as on his: but she was ready to promise ‘faithfully,’ on her part, always a ready ear for his confidences, and her best attention to any problem he might present for her consideration. John accepted this without further question. He knew vaguely that girls were different. Elly would go back to the drawing-room at the rectory, while he went out to work at his profession. He felt that the girls had the worst of it, poor things. And they walked out through the little garden and down the side street which led to the rectory with a little sentiment in their young bosoms, but none that touched upon the relations between themselves. They felt a little sad at leaving school. They felt that one chapter of their lives was over, and that it was a pity, yet delightful. They were sad to leave Mr. Cattley and their books, yet enchanted to be on the threshold of life. John walked to the rectory gate with his school-fellow, for company, and then they parted, but without any tender adieu, without even shaking hands; for after all, until John actually left Edgeley, they would certainly see each other every day. CHAPTER VIII. A CALL FOR EMILY.