when it rose in the morning, fair hit me in the eye!"



"And Millie?"



"I didn't want to see Millie."



"And when you did?"



"I came up against her Sunday, coming out of church. 'Where you been?'

she said, and I saw there was a row. _I_ didn't care if there was.

I seemed to forget about her even while she was there a-talking

to me. She was just nothing. I couldn't make out whatever I 'ad seen

in 'er ever, or what there could 'ave been. Sometimes when she

wasn't about, I did get back a little, but never when she was there.

Then it was always the other came up and blotted her out. . . .

Anyow, it didn't break her heart."



"Married?" I asked.



"Married 'er cousin," said Mr. Skelmersdale, and reflected on the

pattern of the tablecloth for a space.



When he spoke again it was clear that his former sweetheart had clean

vanished from his mind, and that the talk had brought back the Fairy

Lady triumphant in his heart. He talked of her--soon he was letting

out the oddest things, queer love secrets it would be treachery to

repeat. I think, indeed, that was the queerest thing in the whole

affair, to hear that neat little grocer man after his story was done,

with a glass of whisky beside him and a cigar between his fingers,

witnessing, with sorrow still, though now, indeed, with a time-blunted

anguish, of the inappeasable hunger of the heart that presently

came upon him. "I couldn't eat," he said, "I couldn't sleep. I made

mistakes in orders and got mixed with change. There she was day

and night, drawing me and drawing me. Oh, I wanted her. Lord! how

I wanted her! I was up there, most evenings I was up there on the Knoll,

often even when it rained. I used to walk over the Knoll and round it

and round it, calling for them to let me in. Shouting. Near blubbering

I was at times. Daft I was and miserable. I kept on saying it was all

a mistake. And every Sunday afternoon I went up there, wet and fine,

though I knew as well as you do it wasn't no good by day. And I've

tried to go to sleep there."



He stopped sharply and decided to drink some whisky.



"I've tried to go to sleep there," he said, and I could swear his lips

trembled. "I've tried to go to sleep there, often and often. And,

you know, I couldn't, sir--never. I've thought if I could go to sleep

there, there might be something. But I've sat up there and laid up

there, and I couldn't--not for thinking and longing. It's the

longing. . . . I've tried--"



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