Already tongue after tongue had repeated, in every possible form of lying, the anecdote of "young Halifax and the 'squire." Had it been "young Halifax and Miss March," I truly believe John could not have borne it.
As it was, though he saw her constantly, it was always by chance--a momentary glimpse at the window, or a passing acknowledgment in the street.

I knew quite well when he had thus met her, whether he mentioned it or not--knew by the wild, troubled look, which did not wear off for hours.
I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain.
For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over "the lad," as I still fondly called him.

His strength, the glory of a young man, was going from him--he was becoming thin, weak, restless-eyed.
That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had been so beautiful in him all his life through, were utterly lost.
"What am I to do with thee, David ?" said I to him one evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual--I knew why; for Ursula and her friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight.

"Thou art very ill, I fear ?" "Not at all.

There is not the least thing the matter with me.