"What became of him?" he asked, in a strangely altered voice. Was there to be a Mr Compas here too to interfere with his happiness?

"He was poor, and he went away when my step-mother did not like him."

"You had engaged yourself to him?"

"Oh, no! There had been nothing of that kind. You will understand that I should not speak to you on such a subject, were it not that I am bound to tell you my whole heart. But you will never repeat what you now hear."

"There was no engagement?"

"There was no question of any such thing."

"And he is gone?"

"Yes," said Mary; "he has gone."

"And will not come back again?" Then she looked into his face,—oh! so wistfully. "When did it happen?"

"When my father was on his death-bed. He had come sooner than that; but then it was that he went. I think, Mr Whittlestaff, that I never ought to marry any one after that, and therefore it is that I have told you."

"You are a good girl, Mary."

"I don't know about that. I think that I ought to deceive you at least in nothing."

"You should deceive no one."

"No, Mr Whittlestaff." She answered him ever so meekly; but there was running in her mind a feeling that she had not deceived any one, and that she was somewhat hardly used by the advice given to her.

"He has gone altogether?" he asked again.

"I do not know where he is,—whether he be dead or alive."

"But if he should come back?"

She only shook her head;—meaning him to understand that she could say nothing of his purposes should he come back. He had made her no offer. He had said that if he returned he would come first to Norwich. There had been something of a promise in this; but oh, so little! And she did not dare to tell him that hitherto she had lived upon that little.

"I do not think that you should remain single for ever on that account. How long is it now since Mr Gordon went?"

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