"You thought it would be no surprise," she said.

"I did not say so, Cousin," said I. "You have no right to interpret--"

"But you thought it."

I drank my ale.

"Oh! what you must think of me!" she cried in a sudden passion; and ran
out of the room.

* * * * *

I think that was the most disconsolate journey I have ever taken. It was
a cold morning, with a fine rain falling: my man James was disconsolate
too (and I remembered the dairy-maid, when I saw it), and I was leaving
the one place I had begun to think of as my home, and her who had so
much made it home to me. I had not even seen her again before I went;
and our last words had been of anger; and of that chopping kind of
argument that satisfies no one.

I tried to distract myself with other thoughts--of what I was going
to; for I had determined to go straight to Whitehall and ask for some
employment; yet back and back again came the memories, and little scenes
of the house, and the appearance of the Great Chamber when it was all
lit up, and of the figure of that little maid who had so angered me, and
the way she carried her head, and the turns of her hand--and how happy
we all were yesterday about this time. However, I need not enlarge upon
that. Those that have ever so suffered will know what I thought, without
more words; and those who have not suffered would not understand, though