The griefs of youth are like the wounds of the gods--there is an ichor which heals the scars from which it flows: and thus Milly and I consoled ourselves, and next day enjoyed our ramble, our talk and readings, with a wonderful resignation to the inevitable. Milly and I stood in the relation of _Lord Duberly_ to _Doctor Pangloss_. I was to mend her 'cackleology,' and the occupation amused us both. I think at the bottom of our submission to destiny lurked a hope that Uncle Silas, the inexorable, would relent, or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would win and melt him to her purpose. Whatever comfort, however, I derived from the absence of Dudley was not to be of very long duration; for one morning, as I was amusing myself alone, with a piece of worsted work, thinking, and just at that moment not unpleasantly, of many things, my cousin Dudley entered the room. 'Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a' ye bin ever since, lass? Purely, I warrant, be your looks. I'm jolly glad to see ye, I am; no cattle going like ye, Maud.' 'I think I must ask you to let go my hand, as I can't continue my work,' I said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little. 'Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, 'tain't in my heart to refuse ye nout. I a'bin to Wolverhampton, lass--jolly row there--and run over to Leamington; a'most broke my neck, faith, wi' a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would na care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, 'appen, jest a little,' he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent. 'Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it's half the almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?' 'Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?' I asked coldly. '_They'll_ keep, Maud, never mind 'em; it be you I want to see--it be you I wor thinkin' on a' the time. I tell ye, lass, I'm all'ays a thinkin' on ye.' 'I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time. I don't think it is respectful,' I said, a little sharply. 'If ye bid me go I'd a'most go, but I could na quite; there's nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep' leaving you.' 'And that,' I said, with a petulant flush, 'is the only thing on earth I would ask you to do.' 'Blessed if you baint a blushin', Maud,' he drawled, with an odious grin. His stupidity was proof against everything. 'It is _too_ bad!' I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and mimic stamp. 'Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye're angry wi' me now, cos ye think I got into mischief--ye do, Maud; ye know't, ye buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye're ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; 'tisn't fair.' 'I don't _understand_ you, sir; and I _beg_ that you'll leave me.'