“Dear Johnny!” she said.  “Why did he not wait for me?”

“We told him you were out,” said Mrs Dale.  “He will be here again before long, no doubt.”

“And he knows—?”

“Yes; I thought you would not object to my telling him.”

“No, mamma; of course not.  And he has gone back to Guestwick?”

There was no answer given to this question, nor were there any further words then spoken about Johnny Eames.  Each of these women understood exactly how the matter stood, and each knew that the others understood it.  The young man was loved by them all, but not loved with that sort of admiring affection which had been accorded to Mr Crosbie.  Johnny Eames could not have been accepted as a suitor by their pet.  Mrs Dale and Bell both felt that.  And yet they loved him for his love, and for that distant, modest respect which had restrained him from any speech regarding it.  Poor Johnny!  But he was young,—­hardly as yet out of his hobbledehoyhood,—­and he would easily recover this blow, remembering, and perhaps feeling to his advantage, some slight touch of its passing romance.  It is thus women think of men who love young and love in vain.

But Johnny Eames himself, as he rode back to Guestwick, forgetful of his spurs, and with his gloves stuffed into his pocket, thought of the matter very differently.  He had never promised to himself any success as to his passion for Lily, and had, indeed, always acknowledged that he could have no hope; but now, that she was actually promised to another man, and as good as married, he was not the less broken-hearted because his former hopes had not been high.  He had never dared to speak to Lily of his love, but he was conscious that she knew it, and he did not now dare to stand before her as one convicted of having loved in vain.  And then, as he rode back, he thought also of his other love, not with many of those pleasant thoughts which Lotharios and Don Juans may be presumed to enjoy when they contemplate their successes.  “I suppose I shall marry her, and there’ll be an end of me,” he said to himself, as he remembered a short note which he had once written to her in his madness.  There had been a little supper at Mrs Roper’s, and Mrs Lupex and Amelia had made the punch.  After supper, he had been by some accident alone with Amelia in the dining-parlour; and when, warmed by the generous god, he had declared his passion, she had shaken her head mournfully, and had fled from him to some upper region, absolutely refusing his proffered embrace.  But on the same night, before his head had found its pillow, a note had come to him, half repentant, half affectionate, half repellent,—­“If, indeed, he would swear to her that his love was honest and manly, then, indeed, she might even yet,—­see him through the chink of the doorway with the purport of telling him that he was forgiven.”  Whereupon, a perfidious pencil being near to his hand, he had written the requisite words.  “My only object