her very foolish. ‘Not at all,’ says Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs — Hem! — just the slightest cough possible — not more than that.

What a discreet pony, when he chooses! He is as quiet now, as if he were of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. ‘We have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,’ says Kit. Barbara gives him hers. Why, she is trembling now! Foolish, fluttering Barbara!

Arm’s length! The length of an arm is not much. Barbara’s was not a long arm by any means, and besides, she didn’t hold it out straight, but bent a little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that he could see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was natural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should raise her eyes unconsciously and find him out. Was it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or design, Kit should kiss Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara said ‘for shame,’ but let him do it too — twice. He might have done it thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being frightened, ran away — not straight to where her mother and Kit’s mother were, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should ask her why. Sly little Barbara!

When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and his mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby to boot, had had their suppers together — which there was no hurrying over, for they were going to stop there all night — Mr Garland called Kit to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told him that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. Kit looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked him if he would be ready next morning for a journey.

‘For a journey, Sir!’ cried Kit.

‘In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its purpose?’

Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.

‘Oh yes. I think you do already,’ said his master. ‘Try.’

Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he plainly pronounced the words ‘Miss Nell,’ three or four times — shaking his head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of that.

But Mr Garland, instead of saying ‘Try again,’ as Kit had made sure he would, told him very seriously that he had guessed right.

‘The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,’ he said, ‘at last. And that is our journey’s end.’

Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been found, and how long since, and was she well and happy.

‘Happy she is, beyond all doubt,’ said Mr Garland. ‘And well, I — I trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but she was better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope. Sit you down, and you shall hear the rest.’

Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr Garland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long way off in a country- place, with an old clergyman who had been his early friend. How, although they loved each other as brothers should, they had not met for many years, but had communicated by letter from time to time, always looking forward to some period when they would take each other by the hand once more, and still letting the Present time steal on, as it was the habit for men to do, and suffering the Future to melt