She did not speak, so I asked, "Do you not, Betty?"
"No," she answered, shaking her head dolefully. But I knew she did not
tell the truth.
Presently she asked. "Do you want to see Master Hamilton?"
I answered that I did, and she said I might go to the printing shop,
where she was sure I should find him.
She rose and started toward the door. I called to her, but she did not
stop, so I ran after her, saying:--
"Have I offended you, Betty?"
"No," she answered, drooping her head. "But I am very unhappy, and I want
to be alone so that I may cry. You know it is much harder to forego the
thing one wants but may not take, than it is to do without the thing one
wants but cannot take. Yearning for the impossible brings longing, for
the possible anguish."
And I remained silent, almost hating myself.
I went to the tap-room with Betty, and the courtyard being vacant for a
moment, I ran across and down the steps to see Hamilton.
I had tried to see Frances that morning at Whitehall, but failed, being
told that she had gone to visit her father. I had stopped at Sir
Richard's house, but Frances was not there, and I half suspected I might
find her with Hamilton.
I found Hamilton at his printing-press, and after I had told him of the
risk he ran by remaining in London, he said:--
"I have been making an honest living from my _News Letter_ and am sorry
to give it up, but I fear trouble will come very soon if I continue to
publish it.
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