Shall I confess—that I sometimes looked towards the door with a half expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as had happened once before? and that, returning through the lanes and fields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than was at all necessary—for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot one—and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant glimpse of any one, except a few labourers returning from their work?
Sunday however was approaching: I should see him then; for now that Miss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again—I should see him; and by look, speech, and manner I might judge whether the circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him.
Happily I could perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore the same aspect as he had worn two months ago—voice, look, manner—all alike unchanged: there was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the same forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in all he said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear, but felt upon the hearts of his audience.
