“I am quite alone, Tom—­I am, indeed,” said she, almost crying, the first Sunday night when she met him accidentally in going to church, and, in her dreary state of mind, was exceedingly glad to see him.  He consoled her, and even went to church with her, half promising to do the same next Sunday, and calling her “a good little Christian, who almost inclined him to be a Christian too.”

And so, with the vague feeling that she was doing him good and keeping him out of harm—­that lad who had so much that was kindly and nice about him—­Elizabeth consented, not exactly to an appointment, but she told him what were her “Sundays out,” and the church she usually attended, if he liked to take the chance of her being there.

Alack! she had so few pleasures; she so seldom got even a breath of outside air—­it was not thought necessary for servants.  The only hour she was allowed out was the church-going on alternate Sunday evenings.  How pleasant it was to creep out then, and see Tom waiting for her under the opposite trees, dressed so smart and gentlemanlike, looking so handsome and so glad to see her—­her, the poor countrified Elizabeth, who was quizzed incessantly by her fellow-servants on her oddness, plainness, and stupidity.

Tom did not seem to think her stupid, for he talked to her of all his doings and plannings, vague and wild as those of the young tailor in “Alton Locke,” yet with a romantic energy about them that strongly interested his companion; and he read her his poetry, and addressed a few lines to herself, beginning,

    “Dearest and best, my long familiar friend;”

which was rather a poetical exaggeration, since he had altogether forgotten her in the interval of their separation.  But she never guessed this; and so they both clung to the early tie, making it out to be ten times stronger than it really was, as people do who are glad of any excuse for being fond of one another.

Tom really was getting fond of Elizabeth.  She touched the higher half of his nature—­the spiritual and imaginative half.  That he had it, though only a working-man, and she too, though only a domestic servant, was most true:  probably many more of their class have it than we are at all aware of.  Therefore, these two being special individuals, were attracted by each other; she by him, because he was clever, and he by her, because she was so good.  For he had an ideal, poor Tom Cliffe! and though it had been smothered and laid to sleep by a not too regular life, it woke up again under the kind, sincere eyes of this plain, simple-minded, honest Elizabeth Hand.

He knew she was plain, and so old-fashioned in her dress, that Tom, who was particular about such things, did not always like walking with her:  but she was so interesting and true; she sympathized with him so warmly; he found her so unfailingly and unvaryingly good to him through all the little humors and pettishnesses that almost always accompany a large brain, a nervous temperament, and delicate health.  Her quietness soothed him, her strength of character supported him; he at once leaned on her, and ruled over her.