"Now," interrupted Shirley, "you want me as a gentleman--the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short--to supply your place, be master of the rectory and guardian of your niece and maids while you are away?"
"Exactly, captain. I thought the post would suit you. Will you favour Caroline so far as to be her guest for one night? Will you stay here instead of going back to Fieldhead?"
"And what will Mrs. Pryor do? she expects me home."

"Now," interrupted Shirley, "you want me, as the first gentleman in Briarfield, to supply your place, be master of the rectory and guardian of your niece and maids while you are away?"
"Exactly, captain. I thought the post would suit you. Will you be Caroline's guest for one night, instead of going back to Fieldhead?"
"Mrs. Pryor expects me home."


"I will send her word. Come, make up your mind to stay. It grows late; the dew falls heavily. You and Caroline will enjoy each other's society, I doubt not."
"I promise you, then, to stay with Caroline," replied Shirley. "As you say, we shall enjoy each other's society. We will not be separated to-night. Now, rejoin your old friend, and fear nothing for us."
"If there should chance to be any disturbance in the night, captain; if you should hear the picking of a lock, the cutting out of a pane of glass, a stealthy tread of steps about the house (and I need not fear to tell _you_, who bear a well-tempered, mettlesome heart under your girl's ribbon sash, that such little incidents are very possible in the present time), what would you do?"

"I will send her word. Come, make up your mind to stay. You and Caroline will enjoy each other's society."
"I promise, then, to stay with Caroline," replied Shirley. "We will not be separated tonight."
"If there should chance to be any disturbance in the night, captain; if you should hear the picking of a lock, a stealthy tread of steps about the house (and I need not fear to tell you, who bear a mettlesome heart, that such incidents are very possible at present), what would you do?"


"Don't know; faint, perhaps--fall down, and have to be picked up again. But, doctor, if you assign me the post of honour, you must give me arms. What weapons are there in your stronghold?"
"You could not wield a sword?"
"No; I could manage the carving-knife better."
"You will find a good one in the dining-room sideboard--a lady's knife, light to handle, and as sharp-pointed as a poniard."
"It will suit Caroline. But you must give me a brace of pistols. I know you have pistols."

"Don't know; faint, perhaps - fall down, and have to be picked up again. But, doctor, you must give me arms. What weapons are there in your stronghold?"
"You could not wield a sword?"
"No; I could manage the carving-knife better."
"You will find a good one in the dining-room sideboard - light and sharp."
"It will suit Caroline. But you must give me a brace of pistols. I know you have pistols."


"I have two pairs. One pair I can place at your disposal. You will find them suspended over the mantelpiece of my study in cloth cases."
"Loaded?"
"Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go to bed. It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to lend you these. Were you one of the awkward squad you should not have them."

"You will find a pair hanging over the mantelpiece of my study."
"Loaded?"
"Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go to bed. It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to lend you these."


"I will take care. You need delay no longer, Mr. Helstone. You may go now.--He is gracious to me to lend me his pistols," she remarked, as the rector passed out at the garden gate. "But come, Lina," she continued, "let us go in and have some supper. I was too much vexed at tea with the vicinage of Mr. Sam Wynne to be able to eat, and now I am really hungry."
Entering the house, they repaired to the darkened dining-room, through the open windows of which apartment stole the evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers from the garden, the very distant sound of far-retreating steps from the road, and a soft, vague murmur whose origin Caroline explained by the remark, uttered as she stood listening at the casement, "Shirley, I hear the beck in the Hollow."

"I will take care. You need delay no longer, Mr. Helstone. - He is gracious to me to lend me his pistols," she remarked, as the rector departed. "But come, Lina, let us go in and have supper."
Entering the house, they went to the darkened dining-room. Through the open windows stole the evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers, and a soft, vague murmur.
Caroline said, "I hear the beck in the Hollow."


Then she rang the bell, asked for a candle and some bread and milk--Miss Keeldar's usual supper and her own. Fanny, when she brought in the tray, would have closed the windows and the shutters, but was requested to desist for the present. The twilight was too calm, its breath too balmy to be yet excluded. They took their meal in silence. Caroline rose once to remove to the window-sill a glass of flowers which stood on the sideboard, the exhalation from the blossoms being somewhat too powerful for the sultry room. In returning she half opened a drawer, and took from it something that glittered clear and keen in her hand.
"You assigned this to me, then, Shirley, did you? It is bright, keen-edged, finely tapered; it is dangerous-looking. I never yet felt the impulse which could move me to direct this against a fellow-creature. It is difficult to fancy that circumstances could nerve my arm to strike home with this long knife."

She rang the bell, and asked for a candle, and bread and milk for supper. They ate their meal in silence. Caroline rose once, half opened a drawer, and took from it something that glittered clear and keen in her hand.
"You assigned this to me, then, Shirley, did you? It is dangerous-looking. I never yet felt the impulse to wound a fellow-creature."


"I should hate to do it," replied Shirley, "but I think I could do it, if goaded by certain exigencies which I can imagine." And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of new milk, looking somewhat thoughtful and a little pale; though, indeed, when did she not look pale? She was never florid.
The milk sipped and the bread eaten, Fanny was again summoned. She and Eliza were recommended to go to bed, which they were quite willing to do, being weary of the day's exertions, of much cutting of currant-buns, and filling of urns and teapots, and running backwards and forwards with trays. Ere long the maids' chamber door was heard to close. Caroline took a candle and went quietly all over the house, seeing that every window was fast and every door barred. She did not even evade the haunted back kitchen nor the vault-like cellars. These visited, she returned.

"I should hate to do it," replied Shirley, "but I think I could, if goaded sufficiently." And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of milk, looking somewhat thoughtful and a little pale; though, indeed, when did she not look pale?
The milk sipped and the bread eaten, Fanny was again summoned. She and Eliza were recommended to go to bed, which they were quite willing to do, being weary of the day's exertions. Caroline took a candle and went quietly all over the house, seeing that every window was fast and every door barred.


"There is neither spirit nor flesh in the house at present," she said, "which should not be there. It is now near eleven o'clock, fully bedtime; yet I would rather sit up a little longer, if you do not object, Shirley. Here," she continued, "I have brought the brace of pistols from my uncle's study. You may examine them at your leisure."
She placed them on the table before her friend.
"Why would you rather sit up longer?" asked Miss Keeldar, taking up the firearms, examining them, and again laying them down.
"Because I have a strange, excited feeling in my heart."
"So have I."
"Is this state of sleeplessness and restlessness caused by something electrical in the air, I wonder?"

"It is now near eleven o'clock," she said on her return, "yet I would rather sit up a little longer, if you do not object, Shirley. I have brought the pistols from my uncle's study."
She placed them on the table before her friend.
"Why would you rather sit up longer?" asked Miss Keeldar, taking up the firearms, examining them, and laying them down.
"Because I have a strange, excited feeling in my heart."
"So have I."
"Is this restlessness caused by something electrical in the air, I wonder?"


"No; the sky is clear, the stars numberless. It is a fine night."
"But very still. I hear the water fret over its stony bed in Hollow's Copse as distinctly as if it ran below the churchyard wall."
"I am glad it is so still a night. A moaning wind or rushing rain would vex me to fever just now."
"Why, Shirley?"
"Because it would baffle my efforts to listen."
"Do you listen towards the Hollow?"
"Yes; it is the only quarter whence we can hear a sound just now."

"No; the sky is clear. It is a fine night."
"But very still."
"I am glad of that," said Shirley, "because I want to listen towards the Hollow."


"The only one, Shirley."
They both sat near the window, and both leaned their arms on the sill, and both inclined their heads towards the open lattice. They saw each other's young faces by the starlight and that dim June twilight which does not wholly fade from the west till dawn begins to break in the east.
"Mr. Helstone thinks we have no idea which way he is gone," murmured Miss Keeldar, "nor on what errand, nor with what expectations, nor how prepared. But I guess much; do not you?"
"I guess something."
"All those gentlemen--your cousin Moore included--think that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscious."
"Caring nothing about them--hoping and fearing nothing for them," added Caroline.

They both sat near the window, and leaned their arms on the sill by the open lattice. They saw each other's young faces by the starlight and that dim June twilight which does not wholly fade from the west till dawn begins to break in the east.
"Mr. Helstone thinks we have no idea where he is gone," murmured Miss Keeldar, "nor on what errand. But I guess; do not you?"
"I guess something."
"All those gentlemen - your cousin Moore included - think that we are now asleep in our beds."
"Caring nothing about them," added Caroline.


Both kept silent for full half an hour. The night was silent too; only the church clock measured its course by quarters. Some words were interchanged about the chill of the air. They wrapped their scarves closer round them, resumed their bonnets, which they had removed, and again watched.

Both kept silent for full half an hour. The night was silent too; only the church clock measured its course by quarters. They wrapped their scarves closer round them in the chill air, and again watched.


Towards midnight the teasing, monotonous bark of the house-dog disturbed the quietude of their vigil. Caroline rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark passages to the kitchen, intending to appease him with a piece of bread. She succeeded. On returning to the dining-room she found it all dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished the candle. The outline of her shape was visible near the still open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone asked no questions; she stole to her side. The dog recommenced barking furiously. Suddenly he stopped, and seemed to listen. The occupants of the dining-room listened too, and not merely now to the flow of the mill-stream. There was a nearer, though a muffled, sound on the road below the churchyard--a measured, beating, approaching sound--a dull tramp of marching feet.

Towards midnight the bark of the house-dog disturbed their vigil. Caroline rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark passages to the kitchen to appease him with a piece of bread.
On returning to the dining-room she found it dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished the candle. The outline of her shape was visible near the open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone stole to her side. The dog recommenced barking furiously. Suddenly he stopped, and seemed to listen. The occupants of the dining-room listened too. There was a muffled sound on the road below the churchyard - a measured, beating tramp of marching feet.


It drew near. Those who listened by degrees comprehended its extent. It was not the tread of two, nor of a dozen, nor of a score of men; it was the tread of hundreds. They could see nothing; the high shrubs of the garden formed a leafy screen between them and the road. To hear, however, was not enough, and this they felt as the troop trod forwards, and seemed actually passing the rectory. They felt it more when a human voice--though that voice spoke but one word--broke the hush of the night.
"Halt!"
A halt followed. The march was arrested. Then came a low conference, of which no word was distinguishable from the dining-room.

It drew near. It was not the tread of two, nor of a dozen men; it was the tread of hundreds. They could see nothing; the high shrubs of the garden formed a leafy screen between them and the road. The troop marched forwards, and seemed actually passing the rectory when a voice broke the hush of the night.
"Halt!"
The march stopped. Then came a low conference, of which no word was distinguishable from the dining-room.


"We _must_ hear this," said Shirley.
She turned, took her pistols from the table, silently passed out through the middle window of the dining-room, which was, in fact, a glass door, stole down the walk to the garden wall, and stood listening under the lilacs. Caroline would not have quitted the house had she been alone, but where Shirley went she would go. She glanced at the weapon on the sideboard, but left it behind her, and presently stood at her friend's side. They dared not look over the wall, for fear of being seen; they were obliged to crouch behind it. They heard these words,--
"It looks a rambling old building. Who lives in it besides the damned parson?"
"Only three women--his niece and two servants."
"Do you know where they sleep?"

"We must hear this," said Shirley.
She took her pistols from the table, silently passed out through the full-length French window of the dining-room, stole down the walk to the garden wall, and stood listening under the lilacs. Where Shirley went, Caroline would go. She glanced at the knife, but left it behind her, and presently stood at her friend's side. Crouching behind the wall, they heard these words:
"It looks a rambling old building. Who lives in it besides the damned parson?"
"Only three women - his niece and two servants."
"Do you know where they sleep?"


"The lasses behind; the niece in a front room."
"And Helstone?"
"Yonder is his chamber. He was burning a light, but I see none now."
"Where would you get in?"
"If I were ordered to do his job--and he desarves it--I'd try yond' long window; it opens to the dining-room. I could grope my way upstairs, and I know his chamber."
"How would you manage about the women folk?"

"The lasses behind; the niece in a front room."
"And Helstone?"
"Yonder is his chamber. I see no light."
"Where would you get in?"
"I'd try t' long window; it opens to the dining-room. I could grope my way upstairs, and I know his chamber."
"How would you manage about the women folk?"


"Let 'em alone except they shrieked, and then I'd soon quieten 'em. I could wish to find the old chap asleep. If he waked, he'd be dangerous."
"Has he arms?"
"Firearms, allus--and allus loadened."
"Then you're a fool to stop us here. A shot would give the alarm. Moore would be on us before we could turn round. We should miss our main object."

"Let 'em alone except they shrieked, and then I'd soon quieten 'em. If the old chap waked, he'd be dangerous."
"Has he arms?"
"Firearms, and allus loaded."
"Then you're a fool to bring us here. A shot would give the alarm. Moore would be on us before we could turn round. We should miss our main object."


"You might go on, I tell you. I'd engage Helstone alone."
A pause. One of the party dropped some weapon, which rang on the stone causeway. At this sound the rectory dog barked again furiously--fiercely.

"You can go on. I'd engage Helstone alone."
A pause. One of the party dropped some weapon, which rang on the stone causeway. At this sound the rectory dog barked again, furiously.


"That spoils all!" said the voice. "He'll awake. A noise like that might rouse the dead. You did not say there was a dog. Damn you! Forward!"
Forward they went--tramp, tramp--with mustering, manifold, slow-filing tread. They were gone.
Shirley stood erect, looked over the wall, along the road.

"That spoils all!" said the voice. "He'll awake. You did not say there was a dog. Damn you! Forward!"
Forward they went - tramp, tramp - until they were gone.
Shirley stood up and looked over the wall, along the road.


"Not a soul remains," she said.
She stood and mused. "Thank God!" was the next observation.
Caroline repeated the ejaculation--not in so steady a tone. She was trembling much. Her heart was beating fast and thick; her face was cold, her forehead damp.

"Not a soul remains," she said. "Thank God!"
Caroline repeated, "Thank God," not in so steady a tone. She was trembling. Her heart was beating fast; her face was cold, her forehead damp.


"Thank God for us!" she reiterated. "But what will happen elsewhere? They have passed us by that they may make sure of others."

"But what will happen elsewhere?" she asked. "They have passed us so that they may make sure of others."


"They have done well," returned Shirley, with composure. "The others will defend themselves. They can do it. They are prepared for them. With us it is otherwise. My finger was on the trigger of this pistol. I was quite ready to give that man, if he had entered, such a greeting as he little calculated on; but behind him followed three hundred. I had neither three hundred hands nor three hundred weapons. I could not have effectually protected either you, myself, or the two poor women asleep under that roof. Therefore I again earnestly thank God for insult and peril escaped."

"The others will defend themselves," returned Shirley. "They are prepared for them. My finger was on the trigger; but I could not have protected us against three hundred men. Therefore I again earnestly thank God for insult and peril escaped."


After a second pause she continued: "What is it my duty and wisdom to do next? Not to stay here inactive, I am glad to say, but, of course, to walk over to the Hollow."
"To the Hollow, Shirley?"
"To the Hollow. Will you go with me?"
"Where those men are gone?"
"They have taken the highway; we should not encounter them. The road over the fields is as safe, silent, and solitary as a path through the air would be. Will you go?"
"Yes," was the answer, given mechanically, not because the speaker wished or was prepared to go, or, indeed, was otherwise than scared at the prospect of going, but because she felt she could not abandon Shirley.

After a second pause she continued: "What is it my duty and wisdom to do next? Not to stay here inactive, but to walk over to the Hollow. Will you go with me?"
"Where those men are gone?"
"They have taken the highway; we should not meet them. The road over the fields is as safe and solitary as a path through the air. Will you go?"
"Yes," was the answer, given mechanically, not because Caroline wished to go, but because she felt she could not abandon Shirley.


"Then we must fasten up these windows, and leave all as secure as we can behind us. Do you know what we are going for, Cary?"
"Yes--no--because you wish it."
"Is that all? And are you so obedient to a mere caprice of mine? What a docile wife you would make to a stern husband! The moon's face is not whiter than yours at this moment, and the aspen at the gate does not tremble more than your busy fingers; and so, tractable and terror-struck, and dismayed and devoted, you would follow me into the thick of real danger! Cary, let me give your fidelity a motive. We are going for Moore's sake--to see if we can be of use to him, to make an effort to warn him of what is coming."

"Then we must fasten up these windows, and leave all secure behind us. Do you know why we are going, Cary?"
"Yes - no - because you wish it."
"Is that all? What a docile wife you would make! The moon's face is not whiter than yours at this moment; and so, terror-struck and devoted, you would follow me into the thick of danger! Cary, we are going for Moore's sake - to try to warn him of what is coming."


"To be sure! I am a blind, weak fool, and you are acute and sensible, Shirley. I will go with you; I will gladly go with you!"
"I do not doubt it. You would die blindly and meekly for me, but you would intelligently and gladly die for Moore. But, in truth, there is no question of death to-night; we run no risk at all."
Caroline rapidly closed shutter and lattice. "Do not fear that I shall not have breath to run as fast as you can possibly run, Shirley. Take my hand. Let us go straight across the fields."

"To be sure! I am a fool, Shirley. I will gladly go with you!" Caroline rapidly closed shutter and window. "I can run as fast as you can, Shirley. Let us go straight across the fields."


"But you cannot climb walls?"
"To-night I can."
"You are afraid of hedges, and the beck which we shall be forced to cross?"
"I can cross it."

"But you cannot climb walls?"
"Tonight I can."


They started; they ran. Many a wall checked but did not baffle them. Shirley was surefooted and agile; she could spring like a deer when she chose. Caroline, more timid and less dexterous, fell once or twice, and bruised herself; but she rose again directly, saying she was not hurt. A quickset hedge bounded the last field; they lost time in seeking a gap in it. The aperture, when found, was narrow, but they worked their way through. The long hair, the tender skin, the silks and the muslins suffered; but what was chiefly regretted was the impediment this difficulty had caused to speed. On the other side they met the beck, flowing deep in a rough bed. At this point a narrow plank formed the only bridge across it. Shirley had trodden the plank successfully and fearlessly many a time before; Caroline had never yet dared to risk the transit.

They started; they ran. Many a wall checked but did not baffle them. Shirley was surefooted and agile. Caroline fell once or twice, and bruised herself; but she rose again directly, saying she was not hurt. A quickset hedge surrounded the last field; they lost time in seeking a gap, and worked their way through. The long hair, the tender skin, the silks and the muslins suffered; but what was chiefly regretted was the loss of speed.
On the other side they met the beck, flowing deep, a narrow plank the only bridge across it. Shirley had trodden the plank fearlessly many a time; Caroline had never yet dared.


"I will carry you across," said Miss Keeldar. "You are light, and I am not weak. Let me try."

"I will carry you across," said Miss Keeldar. "You are light, and I am not weak."


"If I fall in, you may fish me out," was the answer, as a grateful squeeze compressed her hand. Caroline, without pausing, trod forward on the trembling plank as if it were a continuation of the firm turf. Shirley, who followed, did not cross it more resolutely or safely. In their present humour, on their present errand, a strong and foaming channel would have been a barrier to neither. At the moment they were above the control either of fire or water. All Stilbro' Moor, alight and aglow with bonfires, would not have stopped them, nor would Calder or Aire thundering in flood. Yet one sound made them pause. Scarce had they set foot on the solid opposite bank when a shot split the air from the north. One second elapsed. Further off burst a like note in the south.

"If I fall in, you may fish me out," was the answer. Caroline, without pausing, walked across the trembling plank as if it were firm ground. Shirley, who followed, did not cross it more resolutely. In their present mood, all Stilbro' Moor alight with bonfires would not have stopped them, nor would the river Aire thundering in flood.
Yet one sound made them pause. A shot split the air from the north. One second elapsed; another shot burst further off in the south.


Within the space of three minutes similar signals boomed in the east and west.
"I thought we were dead at the first explosion," observed Shirley, drawing a long breath. "I felt myself hit in the temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced; but the reiterated voice was an explanation. Those are signals--it is their way--the attack must be near. We should have had wings. Our feet have not borne us swiftly enough."

Within three minutes, similar signals boomed in the east and west.
"Those are signals," observed Shirley. "The attack must be near. We should have had wings. Our feet have not been swift enough."


A portion of the copse was now to clear. When they emerged from it the mill lay just below them. They could look down upon the buildings, the yard; they could see the road beyond. And the first glance in that direction told Shirley she was right in her conjecture. They were already too late to give warning. It had taken more time than they calculated on to overcome the various obstacles which embarrassed the short cut across the fields.
The road, which should have been white, was dark with a moving mass. The rioters were assembled in front of the closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing them. The mill itself was perfectly black and still. There was neither life, light, nor motion around it.

They now emerged from the copse; the mill lay just below them, with the road beyond. And the first glance told Shirley she was right. They were already too late to give warning.
The road, which should have been white, was dark with a moving mass. The rioters were assembled in front of the closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing them. The mill itself was perfectly black and still.


"Surely he is prepared. Surely that is not Moore meeting them alone?" whispered Shirley.
"It is. We must go to him. I _will_ go to him."
"_That_ you will not."
"Why did I come, then? I came only for him. I shall join him."

"Surely that is not Moore meeting them alone?" whispered Shirley.
"It is. We must go to him. I will go to him."
"That you will not."
"Why did I come, then? I came only for him. I shall join him."


"Fortunately it is out of your power. There is no entrance to the yard."
"There _is_ a small entrance at the back, besides the gates in front. It opens by a secret method which I know. I will try it."
"Not with my leave."
Miss Keeldar clasped her round the waist with both arms and held her back. "Not one step shall you stir," she went on authoritatively. "At this moment Moore would be both shocked and embarrassed if he saw either you or me. Men never want women near them in time of real danger."

"Fortunately you cannot. There is no entrance to the yard."
"There is a small entrance at the back. I will try it."
"Not with my leave." Miss Keeldar clasped her round the waist with both arms and held her. "Not one step shall you stir. Moore would be both shocked and embarrassed if he saw either you or me. Men never want women near them in time of real danger."


"I would not trouble--I would help him," was the reply.
"How?--by inspiring him with heroism? Pooh! these are not the days of chivalry. It is not a tilt at a tournament we are going to behold, but a struggle about money, and food, and life."
"It is natural that I should be at his side."

"I would help him," was the reply.
"How? by inspiring him with heroism? Pooh! it is not a tilt at a tournament, but a struggle about money and food, and life."
"It is natural that I should be at his side."


"As queen of his heart? His mill is his lady-love, Cary! Backed by his factory and his frames, he has all the encouragement he wants or can know. It is not for love or beauty, but for ledger and broadcloth, he is going to break a spear. Don't be sentimental; Robert is not so."
"I _could_ help him; I _will_ seek him."
"Off then--I let you go--seek Moore. You'll not find him."

"As queen of his heart? His mill is his lady-love, Cary! It is not for love or beauty, but for ledger and broadcloth that he is going to fight. Don't be sentimental; Robert is not so."
"I could help him."
"Off you go then - seek Moore. You'll not find him."


She loosened her hold. Caroline sped like levelled shaft from bent bow; after her rang a jesting, gibing laugh. "Look well there is no mistake!" was the warning given.
But there _was_ a mistake. Miss Helstone paused, hesitated, gazed. The figure had suddenly retreated from the gate, and was running back hastily to the mill.
"Make haste, Lina!" cried Shirley; "meet him before he enters."

She loosened her hold. Caroline sped away; but then she paused, gazing. The figure had retreated from the gate, and was running back to the mill.


Caroline slowly returned. "It is not Robert," she said. "It has neither his height, form, nor bearing."

She slowly returned. "It is not Robert," she said.


"I saw it was not Robert when I let you go. How could you imagine it? It is a shabby little figure of a private soldier; they had posted him as sentinel. He is safe in the mill now. I saw the door open and admit him. My mind grows easier. Robert is prepared. Our warning would have been superfluous; and now I am thankful we came too late to give it. It has saved us the trouble of a scene. How fine to have entered the counting-house _toute perdue_, and to have found oneself in presence of Messrs. Armitage and Ramsden smoking, Malone swaggering, your uncle sneering, Mr. Sykes sipping a cordial, and Moore himself in his cold man-of-business vein!

"I saw that when I let you go. It is a soldier, posted as sentinel. He is safe in the mill now. My mind grows easier. Robert is prepared. Our warning would have been superfluous; and now I am thankful we came too late to give it. It has saved us the trouble of a scene. How fine to have entered the counting-house, and to have found oneself in the presence of Malone swaggering, your uncle sneering, Mr. Sykes sipping a cordial, and Moore himself in his cold man-of-business vein!


I am glad we missed it all."
"I wonder if there are many in the mill, Shirley!"
"Plenty to defend it. The soldiers we have twice seen to-day were going there, no doubt, and the group we noticed surrounding your cousin in the fields will be with him."
"What are they doing now, Shirley? What is that noise?"
"Hatchets and crowbars against the yard gates. They are forcing them. Are you afraid?"

I am glad we missed it."
"I wonder if there are many in the mill, Shirley!"
"Plenty to defend it. The soldiers we have twice seen today were going there, no doubt. The crowd is trying to force the gates, using hatchets and crowbars. Are you afraid?"


"No; but my heart throbs fast. I have a difficulty in standing. I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved?"
"Hardly that; but I am glad I came. We shall see what transpires with our own eyes. We are here on the spot, and none know it. Instead of amazing the curate, the clothier, and the corn-dealer with a romantic rush on the stage, we stand alone with the friendly night, its mute stars, and these whispering trees, whose report our friends will not come to gather."

"No; but my heart throbs fast. I have difficulty in standing. Do you feel unmoved?"
"Hardly that; but I am glad I came. We are here on the spot, and none know it."


"Shirley, Shirley, the gates are down! That crash was like the felling of great trees. Now they are pouring through. They will break down the mill doors as they have broken the gate. What can Robert do against so many? Would to God I were a little nearer him--could hear him speak--could speak to him! With my will--my longing to serve him--I could not be a useless burden in his way; I could be turned to some account."

"Shirley, the gates are down! Now they are pouring through. They will break down the mill doors as they have broken the gate. What can Robert do against so many? Would to God I were nearer him - could speak to him! I long to serve him - surely I could be of some use."


"They come on!" cried Shirley. "How steadily they march in! There is discipline in their ranks. I will not say there is courage--hundreds against tens are no proof of that quality--but" (she dropped her voice) "there is suffering and desperation enough amongst them. These goads will urge them forwards."
"Forwards against Robert; and they hate him. Shirley, is there much danger they will win the day?"
"We shall see. Moore and Helstone are of 'earth's first blood'--no bunglers--no cravens----"

"How steadily they march in!" cried Shirley. "There is discipline in their ranks. I will not say there is courage, but there is desperation enough to urge them forwards."
"Forwards against Robert; and they hate him."


A crash--smash--shiver--stopped their whispers. A simultaneously hurled volley of stones had saluted the broad front of the mill, with all its windows; and now every pane of every lattice lay in shattered and pounded fragments. A yell followed this demonstration--a rioters' yell--a north-of-England, a Yorkshire, a West-Riding, a West-Riding-clothing-district-of-Yorkshire rioters' yell.
You never heard that sound, perhaps, reader? So much the better for your ears--perhaps for your heart, since, if it rends the air in hate to yourself, or to the men or principles you approve, the interests to which you wish well, wrath wakens to the cry of hate; the lion shakes his mane, and rises to the howl of the hyena; caste stands up, ireful against caste; and the indignant, wronged spirit of the middle rank bears down in zeal and scorn on the famished and furious mass of the operative class. It is difficult to be tolerant, difficult to be just, in such moments.
Caroline rose; Shirley put her arm round her: they stood together as still as the straight stems of two trees. That yell was a long one, and when it ceased the night was yet full of the swaying and murmuring of a crowd.

A crash stopped their whispers. A volley of stones had saluted the broad front of the mill, with all its windows; and now every pane lay in shattered fragments. A yell followed - a rioters' yell.
Caroline rose; Shirley put her arm round her: they stood together like two straight trees. When the yell ceased, the night was yet full of the murmuring of a crowd.


"What next?" was the question of the listeners. Nothing came yet. The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.
"He _cannot_ be alone!" whispered Caroline.
"I would stake all I have that he is as little alone as he is alarmed," responded Shirley.

The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.
"He cannot be alone!" whispered Caroline.
"He is neither alone nor alarmed," responded Shirley.


Shots were discharged by the rioters. Had the defenders waited for this signal? It seemed so. The hitherto inert and passive mill woke; fire flashed from its empty window-frames; a volley of musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.
"Moore speaks at last!" said Shirley, "and he seems to have the gift of tongues. That was not a single voice."

Shots were fired by the rioters. And now the mill awoke; fire flashed from its empty window-frames; a volley of musketry pealed through the Hollow.
"Moore speaks at last!" said Shirley.


"He has been forbearing. No one can accuse him of rashness," alleged Caroline. "Their discharge preceded his. They broke his gates and his windows. They fired at his garrison before he repelled them."

"He has been forbearing. No-one can accuse him of rashness," said Caroline. "They attacked first."


What was going on now? It seemed difficult, in the darkness, to distinguish; but something terrible, a still-renewing tumult, was obvious--fierce attacks, desperate repulses. The mill-yard, the mill itself, was full of battle movement. There was scarcely any cessation now of the discharge of firearms; and there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be to enter the mill, that of the defenders to beat them off. They heard the rebel leader cry, "To the back, lads!" They heard a voice retort, "Come round; we will meet you."
"To the counting-house!" was the order again.

What was going on now? It seemed difficult, in the darkness, to distinguish; but a tumult was obvious - fierce attacks, desperate repulses. The mill-yard was full of battle movement. There were frequent shots; there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting. They heard the rebel leader cry, "To the back, lads!" They heard a voice retort, "Come round; we will meet you."
"To the counting-house!"


"Welcome! we shall have you there!" was the response. And accordingly the fiercest blaze that had yet glowed, the loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst from the counting-house front when the mass of rioters rushed up to it.
The voice that had spoken was Moore's own voice. They could tell by its tones that his soul was now warm with the conflict; they could guess that the fighting animal was roused in every one of those men there struggling together, and was for the time quite paramount above the rational human being.
Both the girls felt their faces glow and their pulses throb; both knew they would do no good by rushing down into the _mle_. They desired neither to deal nor to receive blows; but they could not have run away--Caroline no more than Shirley; they could not have fainted; they could not have taken their eyes from the dim, terrible scene--from the mass of cloud, of smoke, the musket-lightning--for the world.

"Welcome! we shall have you there!" was the response. And accordingly the fiercest blaze that had yet glowed, the loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst from the counting-house when the mass of rioters rushed up to it.
The voice that had spoken was Moore's, warm with the conflict; they could tell that the fighting animal was roused in every one of those men there struggling.
The girls felt their faces glow and their pulses throb; but knew they would do no good by rushing down into the mle.
They could not take their eyes from the dim, terrible scene - from the mass of cloud, of smoke, the musket-lightning.


"How and when would it end?" was the demand throbbing in their throbbing pulses. "Would a juncture arise in which they could be useful?" was what they waited to see; for though Shirley put off their too-late arrival with a jest, and was ever ready to satirize her own or any other person's enthusiasm, she would have given a farm of her best land for a chance of rendering good service.

They wondered both how it would end, and whether they could yet be useful; for Shirley would have given a farm of her best land for a chance of rendering good service.


The chance was not vouchsafed her; the looked-for juncture never came. It was not likely. Moore had expected this attack for days, perhaps weeks; he was prepared for it at every point. He had fortified and garrisoned his mill, which in itself was a strong building. He was a cool, brave man; he stood to the defence with unflinching firmness. Those who were with him caught his spirit, and copied his demeanour. The rioters had never been so met before. At other mills they had attacked they had found no resistance; an organized, resolute defence was what they never dreamed of encountering. When their leaders saw the steady fire kept up from the mill, witnessed the composure and determination of its owner, heard themselves coolly defied and invited on to death, and beheld their men falling wounded round them, they felt that nothing was to be done here. In haste they mustered their forces, drew them away from the building.

The chance never came. Moore had expected this attack, and was prepared for it. He had fortified and garrisoned his mill, which in itself was a strong building. He was a cool, brave man; he stood to the defence with unflinching firmness. Those who were with him caught his spirit.
The rioters had never been so met before. At other mills they had attacked they had found no resistance. When their leaders saw the steady fire kept up from the mill, witnessed the composure and determination of its owner, heard themselves coolly invited on to death, and beheld their men falling wounded, they hastily mustered their forces and drew them away.


A roll was called over, in which the men answered to figures instead of names. They dispersed wide over the fields, leaving silence and ruin behind them. The attack, from its commencement to its termination, had not occupied an hour.
Day was by this time approaching; the west was dim, the east beginning to gleam. It would have seemed that the girls who had watched this conflict would now wish to hasten to the victors, on whose side all their interest had been enlisted; but they only very cautiously approached the now battered mill, and when suddenly a number of soldiers and gentlemen appeared at the great door opening into the yard, they quickly stepped aside into a shed, the deposit of old iron and timber, whence they could see without being seen.
It was no cheering spectacle. These premises were now a mere blot of desolation on the fresh front of the summer dawn. All the copse up the Hollow was shady and dewy, the hill at its head was green; but just here, in the centre of the sweet glen, Discord, broken loose in the night from control, had beaten the ground with his stamping hoofs, and left it waste and pulverized. The mill yawned all ruinous with unglazed frames; the yard was thickly bestrewn with stones and brickbats; and close under the mill, with the glittering fragments of the shattered windows, muskets and other weapons lay here and there. More than one deep crimson stain was visible on the gravel, a human body lay quiet on its face near the gates, and five or six wounded men writhed and moaned in the bloody dust.

They dispersed wide over the fields, leaving silence and ruin behind. The attack had not lasted an hour.
Day was by this time approaching; the east was beginning to gleam. The girls very cautiously approached the now battered mill. When soldiers suddenly appeared at the great door opening into the yard, they quickly stepped aside into a shed, where they could see without being seen.
It was no cheering spectacle. The mill yawned ruinous with broken windows; the yard was thickly strewn with stones; and close under the mill, with the glittering fragments of glass, lay muskets and other weapons. More than one deep crimson stain was visible on the gravel, a human body lay quiet on its face near the gates, and five or six wounded men writhed and moaned in the bloody dust.


Miss Keeldar's countenance changed at this view. It was the after-taste of the battle, death and pain replacing excitement and exertion. It was the blackness the bright fire leaves when its blaze is sunk, its warmth failed, and its glow faded.
"This is what I wished to prevent," she said, in a voice whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her heart.
"But you could not prevent it; you did your best--it was in vain," said Caroline comfortingly. "Don't grieve, Shirley."
"I am sorry for those poor fellows," was the answer, while the spark in her glance dissolved to dew. "Are any within the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle?"
"It is, and there is Mr. Malone; and, O Shirley, there is Robert!"

Miss Keeldar's face changed.
"This is what I wished to prevent," she said, in a low voice.
"But you could not prevent it; you did your best," said Caroline. "Don't grieve, Shirley."
"I am sorry for those poor fellows," was the answer. "Are any within the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle?"
"It is, and there is Mr. Malone; and, O Shirley, there is Robert!"


"Well" (resuming her former tone), "don't squeeze your fingers quite into my hand. I see. There is nothing wonderful in that. We knew he, at least, was here, whoever might be absent."
"He is coming here towards us, Shirley!"
"Towards the pump, that is to say, for the purpose of washing his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch, I perceive."
"He bleeds, Shirley. Don't hold me. I must go."
"Not a step."

"Well, there is nothing wonderful in that. We knew he, at least, was here."
"He is coming towards us, Shirley!"
"Towards the pump, rather, to wash his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch, I perceive."
"He bleeds, Shirley. Don't hold me. I must go."
"Not a step."


"He is hurt, Shirley!"
"Fiddlestick!"
"But I _must_ go to him. I wish to go so much. I cannot bear to be restrained."
"What for?"
"To speak to him, to ask how he is, and what I can do for him."
"To tease and annoy him; to make a spectacle of yourself and him before those soldiers, Mr. Malone, your uncle, et cetera. Would he like it, think you? Would you like to remember it a week hence?"

"But I must go to him, to ask how he is, and see what I can do."
"To tease and annoy him; to make a spectacle of yourself before those soldiers, Mr. Malone, and your uncle. Would he like it? Would you like to remember it a week hence?"


"Am I always to be curbed and kept down?" demanded Caroline, a little passionately.
"For his sake, yes; and still more for your own. I tell you, if you showed yourself now you would repent it an hour hence, and so would Robert."
"You think he would not like it, Shirley?"
"Far less than he would like our stopping him to say good-night, which you were so sore about."
"But that was all play; there was no danger."
"And this is serious work; he must be unmolested."
"I only wish to go to him because he is my cousin--you understand?"

"Am I always to be curbed and kept down?" demanded Caroline passionately.
"For his sake, yes; and still more for your own. I tell you, if you showed yourself now you would repent it an hour hence, and so would Robert."
"I only wish to go to him because he is my cousin - you understand?"


"I quite understand. But now, watch him. He has bathed his forehead, and the blood has ceased trickling. His hurt is really a mere graze; I can see it from hence. He is going to look after the wounded men."
Accordingly Mr. Moore and Mr. Helstone went round the yard, examining each prostrate form. They then gave directions to have the wounded taken up and carried into the mill. This duty being performed, Joe Scott was ordered to saddle his master's horse and Mr. Helstone's pony, and the two gentlemen rode away full gallop, to seek surgical aid in different directions.
Caroline was not yet pacified.
"Shirley, Shirley, I should have liked to speak one word to him before he went," she murmured, while the tears gathered glittering in her eyes.

"I quite understand. But now, look: he has bathed his forehead, and the blood has ceased trickling. It is a mere graze. He is going to look after the wounded men."
Mr. Moore and Mr. Helstone went round the yard, examining each prostrate form. They gave directions to have the wounded taken up and carried into the mill. Horses were saddled, and Moore and Mr. Helstone rode away full gallop, in different directions, to seek surgical aid.
Caroline was not yet pacified.
"Shirley, Shirley, I should have liked to speak one word to him before he went," she murmured, while tears gathered glittering in her eyes.


"Why do you cry, Lina?" asked Miss Keeldar a little sternly. "You ought to be glad instead of sorry. Robert has escaped any serious harm; he is victorious; he has been cool and brave in combat; he is now considerate in triumph. Is this a time--are these causes for weeping?"

"Why do you cry, Lina?" asked Miss Keeldar a little sternly. "You ought to be glad. Robert has escaped any serious harm; he is victorious; he has been brave in combat; he is now considerate in triumph. Are these causes for weeping?"


"You do not know what I have in my heart," pleaded the other--"what pain, what distraction--nor whence it arises. I can understand that you should exult in Robert's greatness and goodness; so do I, in one sense, but in another I feel _so_ miserable. I am too far removed from him. I used to be nearer. Let me alone, Shirley. Do let me cry a few minutes; it relieves me."

"You do not know what I have in my heart," pleaded the other. "I understand that you exult in Robert's greatness and goodness; so do I, in one sense, but in another I feel so miserable. I am too far removed from him. I used to be nearer. Let me alone, Shirley. Do let me cry a few minutes."


Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble in every limb, ceased to expostulate with her. She went out of the shed, and left her to weep in peace. It was the best plan. In a few minutes Caroline rejoined her, much calmer. She said, with her natural, docile, gentle manner, "Come, Shirley, we will go home now. I promise not to try to see Robert again till he asks for me. I never will try to push myself on him. I thank you for restraining me just now."
"I did it with a good intention," returned Miss Keeldar.

Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble in every limb, went out of the shed, and left her to weep in peace. It was the best plan. In a few minutes Caroline rejoined her, much calmer. She said, with her natural, gentle manner, "Come, Shirley, we will go home now. I promise not to try to see Robert again till he asks for me. I never will try to push myself on him. I thank you for restraining me just now."


"Now, dear Lina," she continued, "let us turn our faces to the cool morning breeze, and walk very quietly back to the rectory. We will steal in as we stole out. None shall know where we have been or what we have seen to-night; neither taunt nor misconstruction can consequently molest us. To-morrow we will see Robert, and be of good cheer; but I will say no more, lest I should begin to cry too. I seem hard towards you, but I am not so."

"Now, dear Lina," returned Shirley, "let us walk very quietly back to the rectory. We will steal in as we stole out. None shall know where we have been. Tomorrow we will see Robert, and be of good cheer; but I will say no more, lest I should begin to cry too. I seem hard towards you, but I am not so."


Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old, and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced. Before that time we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous fiction, delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes, almost always unreal. Before that time our world is heroic, its inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are dream-scenes; darker woods and stranger hills, brighter skies, more dangerous waters, sweeter flowers, more tempting fruits, wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than are found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. What a moon we gaze on before that time! How the trembling of our hearts at her aspect bears witness to its unutterable beauty! As to our sun, it is a burning heaven--the world of gods.

Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old, and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to begin. Before that age we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous fiction: our world is heroic, its scenes are dream-scenes, with darker woods and stranger hills, brighter skies, more dangerous waters, wider plains, and sunnier fields than are found in nature.


At that time, at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant; they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and thirst no more; whereas many a wilderness, and often the flood of death, or some stream of sorrow as cold and almost as black as death, is to be crossed ere true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory rustles over it.

At eighteen, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise ahead. These shores are still distant; they look so blue, soft, and gentle, we long to reach them. There, we think, we would hunger and thirst no more; whereas many a wilderness or stream of sorrow is to be crossed before true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned; and earned with hardship.


At eighteen we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness to-morrow, is implicitly believed; Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced. His quiver is not seen; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life. There are no fears of poison, none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract. That perilous passion--an agony ever in some of its phases; with many, an agony throughout--is believed to be an unqualified good. In short, at eighteen the school of experience is to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learned.
Alas, Experience! No other mentor has so wasted and frozen a face as yours, none wears a robe so black, none bears a rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws the novice so sternly to his task, and forces him with authority so resistless to its acquirement. It is by your instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through life's wilds; without it, how they stumble, how they stray! On what forbidden grounds do they intrude, down what dread declivities are they hurled!

At eighteen we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness, is believed; Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at once welcomed and embraced. If his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life. That perilous passion - even agony - is believed to be an unqualified good. In short, at eighteen the school of experience is yet to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but purifying lessons are yet to be learned.
Alas, Experience! No other teacher has so wasted and frozen a face as yours, none wears a robe so black, none bears a rod so heavy. It is by your lessons alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through life's wilds.


Caroline, having been convoyed home by Robert, had no wish to pass what remained of the evening with her uncle. The room in which he sat was very sacred ground to her; she seldom intruded on it; and to-night she kept aloof till the bell rang for prayers. Part of the evening church service was the form of worship observed in Mr. Helstone's household. He read it in his usual nasal voice, clear, loud, and monotonous. The rite over, his niece, according to her wont, stepped up to him.
"Good-night, uncle."
"Hey! You've been gadding abroad all day--visiting, dining out, and what not!"
"Only at the cottage."
"And have you learned your lessons?"

Caroline, having walked home with Robert, had no wish to pass the rest of the evening with her uncle, and kept aloof till the bell rang for prayers. Mr. Helstone read part of the evening church service in his clear, nasal voice. Afterwards, his niece, as usual, stepped up to him.
"Good-night, uncle."
"Hey! You've been gadding abroad all day - visiting, dining out, and what not!"
"Only at the cottage."
"And have you learned your lessons?"


"Yes."
"And made a shirt?"
"Only part of one."
"Well, that will do. Stick to the needle, learn shirt-making and gown-making and piecrust-making, and you'll be a clever woman some day. Go to bed now. I'm busy with a pamphlet here."
Presently the niece was enclosed in her small bedroom, the door bolted, her white dressing-gown assumed, her long hair loosened and falling thick, soft, and wavy to her waist; and as, resting from the task of combing it out, she leaned her check on her hand and fixed her eyes on the carpet, before her rose, and close around her drew, the visions we see at eighteen years.

"Yes."
"And made a shirt?"
"Part of one."
"Well, that will do. Stick to the needle, and you'll be a clever woman some day. Go to bed now. I'm busy with a pamphlet here."
Presently the niece was in her small bedroom, in her white dressing-gown, her long hair loosened and falling thick and soft to her waist. As she leaned her cheek on her hand and fixed her eyes on the carpet, before her rose the visions we see at eighteen years.


Her thoughts were speaking with her, speaking pleasantly, as it seemed, for she smiled as she listened. She looked pretty meditating thus; but a brighter thing than she was in that apartment--the spirit of youthful Hope. According to this flattering prophet, she was to know disappointment, to feel chill no more; she had entered on the dawn of a summer day--no false dawn, but the true spring of morning--and her sun would quickly rise. Impossible for her now to suspect that she was the sport of delusion; her expectations seemed warranted, the foundation on which they rested appeared solid.

Her thoughts were pleasant, it seemed, for she smiled. The flattering prophet Hope told her that she had entered on the dawn of a summer day, and her sun would quickly rise. Her expectations seemed based on a solid foundation.


"When people love, the next step is they marry," was her argument. "Now, I love Robert, and I feel sure that Robert loves me. I have thought so many a time before; to-day I _felt_ it. When I looked up at him after repeating Chnier's poem, his eyes (what handsome eyes he has!) sent the truth through my heart. Sometimes I am afraid to speak to him, lest I should be too frank, lest I should seem forward--for I have more than once regretted bitterly overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I had said more than he expected me to say, and that he would disapprove what he might deem my indiscretion; now, to-night I could have ventured to express any thought, he was so indulgent. How kind he was as we walked up the lane! He does not flatter or say foolish things; his love-making (friendship, I mean; of course I don't yet account him my lover, but I hope he will be so some day) is not like what we read of in books,--it is far better--original, quiet, manly, sincere. I _do_ like him; I would be an excellent wife to him if he did marry me; I would tell him of his faults (for he has a few faults), but I would study his comfort, and cherish him, and do my best to make him happy. Now, I am sure he will not be cold to-morrow.

"When people love, the next step is they marry," she thought. "Now, I love Robert, and I feel sure that Robert loves me. When I looked up at him after repeating Chnier's poem, his handsome eyes sent the truth through my heart. Sometimes I am afraid to speak to him, lest I should be too frank and forward; but tonight I could have dared to express any thought, he was so indulgent. How kind he was as we walked up the lane! He does not flatter or say foolish things; his love-making (friendship, I mean; I don't account him my lover, but I hope he will be so some day) is not like what we read of in books. It is quiet, manly, sincere. I do like him; I would be an excellent wife to him; I would tell him of his faults (for he has a few faults), but I would study his comfort, and cherish him, and do my best to make him happy. Now,


I feel almost certain that to-morrow evening he will either come here, or ask me to go there."
She recommenced combing her hair, long as a mermaid's. Turning her head as she arranged it she saw her own face and form in the glass. Such reflections are soberizing to plain people: their own eyes are not enchanted with the image; they are confident then that the eyes of others can see in it no fascination. But the fair must naturally draw other conclusions: the picture is charming, and must charm. Caroline saw a shape, a head, that, daguerreotyped in that attitude and with that expression, would have been lovely. She could not choose but derive from the spectacle confirmation to her hopes. It was then in undiminished gladness she sought her couch.

 I feel almost certain that tomorrow evening he will either come here, or ask me to go there."
She began combing her hair. Turning her head she saw herself in the glass. She made a charming picture; and in undiminished gladness she sought her bed.


And in undiminished gladness she rose the next day. As she entered her uncle's breakfast-room, and with soft cheerfulness wished him good-morning, even that little man of bronze himself thought, for an instant, his niece was growing "a fine girl." Generally she was quiet and timid with him--very docile, but not communicative; this morning, however, she found many things to say. Slight topics alone might be discussed between them; for with a woman--a girl--Mr. Helstone would touch on no other. She had taken an early walk in the garden, and she told him what flowers were beginning to spring there; she inquired when the gardener was to come and trim the borders; she informed him that certain starlings were beginning to build their nests in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close to Briarfield rectory); she wondered the tolling of the bells in the belfry did not scare them.
Mr. Helstone opined that "they were like other fools who had just paired--insensible to inconvenience just for the moment." Caroline, made perhaps a little too courageous by her temporary good spirits, here hazarded a remark of a kind she had never before ventured to make on observations dropped by her revered relative.
"Uncle," said she, "whenever you speak of marriage you speak of it scornfully. Do you think people shouldn't marry?"
"It is decidedly the wisest plan to remain single, especially for women."

And in undiminished gladness she rose the next day. As she entered her uncle's breakfast-room, and with soft cheerfulness wished him good-morning, even that little man of bronze thought, for an instant, that his niece was growing "a fine girl." Generally she was quiet and timid with him, but this morning she found many things to say. Only slight topics might be discussed; for with a woman Mr. Helstone would touch on no other. She had taken an early walk in the garden, and she told him what flowers were beginning to spring there; she inquired when the gardener was to trim the borders; she informed him that starlings were beginning to build their nests in the nearby church-tower, and she wondered that the tolling of the church bells did not scare them.
Mr. Helstone opined that "they were like other fools who had just paired - insensible." Caroline, made perhaps a little too courageous by her good spirits, here hazarded a remark of a kind she had never before ventured to make.
"Uncle," said she, "you always speak of marriage scornfully. Do you think people shouldn't marry?"
"It is decidedly the wisest plan to remain single."


"Are all marriages unhappy?"
"Millions of marriages are unhappy. If everybody confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so."
"You are always vexed when you are asked to come and marry a couple. Why?"
"Because one does not like to act as accessory to the commission of a piece of pure folly."
Mr. Helstone spoke so readily, he seemed rather glad of the opportunity to give his niece a piece of his mind on this point. Emboldened by the impunity which had hitherto attended her questions, she went a little further.
"But why," said she, "should it be pure folly? If two people like each other, why shouldn't they consent to live together?"

"Are all marriages unhappy?"
"Millions of marriages are unhappy. If everybody confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so."
"You are always vexed when you are asked to marry a couple. Why?"
"Because one does not like to act as accessory to a piece of pure folly."
Mr. Helstone seemed rather glad of the opportunity to give his niece a piece of his mind on this point. Emboldened, she went a little further.
"But why," said she, "should it be pure folly? If two people like each other, why shouldn't they live together?"


"They tire of each other--they tire of each other in a month. A yokefellow is not a companion; he or she is a fellow-sufferer."
It was by no means nave simplicity which inspired Caroline's next remark; it was a sense of antipathy to such opinions, and of displeasure at him who held them.
"One would think you had never been married, uncle. One would think you were an old bachelor."
"Practically, I am so."
"But you have been married. Why were you so inconsistent as to marry?"
"Every man is mad once or twice in his life."
"So you tired of my aunt, and my aunt of you, and you were miserable together?"

"They tire of each other in a month. They are not companions, but fellow-sufferers."
It was not navet which inspired Caroline's next remark; it was a sense of antipathy to such opinions, and displeasure.
"One would think you had never been married, uncle. Why were you so inconsistent as to marry?"
"Every man is mad once or twice in his life."
"So you tired of my aunt, and my aunt of you, and you were miserable together?"


Mr. Helstone pushed out his cynical lip, wrinkled his brown forehead, and gave an inarticulate grunt.
"Did she not suit you? Was she not good-tempered? Did you not get used to her? Were you not sorry when she died?"
"Caroline," said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly down to within an inch or two of the table, and then smiting it suddenly on the mahogany, "understand this: it is vulgar and puerile to confound generals with particulars. In every case there is the rule and there are the exceptions. Your questions are stupid and babyish. Ring the bell, if you have done breakfast."

Mr. Helstone pushed out his cynical lip, wrinkled his forehead, and gave an inarticulate grunt.
"Did she not suit you? Was she not good-tempered? Were you not sorry when she died?"
"Caroline," said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly down to within an inch of the table, and then smiting it suddenly on the mahogany, "in every case there is the rule and there are exceptions. Your questions are stupid and babyish. Ring the bell."


The breakfast was taken away, and that meal over, it was the general custom of uncle and niece to separate, and not to meet again till dinner; but to-day the niece, instead of quitting the room, went to the window-seat, and sat down there. Mr. Helstone looked round uneasily once or twice, as if he wished her away; but she was gazing from the window, and did not seem to mind him: so he continued the perusal of his morning paper--a particularly interesting one it chanced to be, as new movements had just taken place in the Peninsula, and certain columns of the journal were rich in long dispatches from General Lord Wellington. He little knew, meantime, what thoughts were busy in his niece's mind--thoughts the conversation of the past half-hour had revived but not generated; tumultuous were they now, as disturbed bees in a hive, but it was years since they had first made their cells in her brain.
She was reviewing his character, his disposition, repeating his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she reviewed them before, and sounded the gulf between her own mind and his; and then, on the other side of the wide and deep chasm, she had seen, and she now saw, another figure standing beside her uncle's--a strange shape, dim, sinister, scarcely earthly--the half-remembered image of her own father, James Helstone, Matthewson Helstone's brother.
Rumours had reached her ear of what that father's character was; old servants had dropped hints; she knew, too, that he was not a good man, and that he was never kind to her. She recollected--a dark recollection it was--some weeks that she had spent with him in a great town somewhere, when she had had no maid to dress her or take care of her; when she had been shut up, day and night, in a high garret-room, without a carpet, with a bare uncurtained bed, and scarcely any other furniture; when he went out early every morning, and often forgot to return and give her her dinner during the day, and at night, when he came back, was like a madman, furious, terrible, or--still more painful--like an idiot, imbecile, senseless. She knew she had fallen ill in this place, and that one night, when she was very sick he had come raving into the room, and said he would kill her, for she was a burden to him. Her screams had brought aid; and from the moment she was then rescued from him she had never seen him, except as a dead man in his coffin.

The breakfast was taken away. Usually uncle and niece would now separate until dinner; but today the niece, instead of quitting the room, went to the window-seat, and sat there. Mr. Helstone looked round uneasily once or twice, as if he wished her away; but she was gazing from the window, and did not seem to mind him. So he continued reading his morning paper - a particularly interesting one, as it contained long dispatches from General Lord Wellington. He little knew what tumultuous thoughts were busy in his niece's mind, like disturbed bees in a hive.
She was reviewing his character and his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she reviewed them before, and sounded the gulf between her own mind and his; and then, on the other side of the chasm, she had seen, and now saw, another figure standing beside her uncle: a strange, sinister shape - the half-remembered image of her own father, James Helstone, Matthewson Helstone's brother.
She had heard rumours of that father's character; old servants had dropped hints; she knew that he was not a good man, and that he was never kind to her. She recollected some dismal weeks that she had spent with him in a great town somewhere, with no maid to take care of her. She had been shut up, day and night, in a high garret-room, without a carpet, with a bare bed, and scarcely any other furniture. He went out early every morning, and often forgot to return and give her dinner during the day; and at night, when he came back, was like a madman, furious, terrible, or - still more painful - like an idiot, senseless. She knew she had fallen ill in this place, and that one night, when she was very sick, he had come raving into the room, and said he would kill her, for she was a burden to him. Her screams had brought aid; and from the moment she was rescued from him she had never seen him again, except as a dead man in his coffin.


That was her father. Also she had a mother, though Mr. Helstone never spoke to her of that mother, though she could not remember having seen her; but that she was alive she knew. This mother was then the drunkard's wife. What had _their_ marriage been? Caroline, turning from the lattice, whence she had been watching the starlings (though without seeing them), in a low voice, and with a sad, bitter tone, thus broke the silence of the room,--
"You term marriage miserable, I suppose, from what you saw of my father and mother's. If my mother suffered what I suffered when I was with papa, she must have had a dreadful life."
Mr. Helstone, thus addressed, wheeled about in his chair, and looked over his spectacles at his niece. He was taken aback.

That was her father. Also she had a mother, of whom Mr. Helstone never spoke. Caroline could not remember having seen her; but she knew that she was alive. This mother was then the drunkard's wife. What had their marriage been? Turning from the window, she said in a low, sad voice:
"You call marriage miserable, I suppose, from what you saw of my father and mother's. If my mother suffered what I suffered when I was with papa, she must have had a dreadful life."
Mr. Helstone wheeled about in his chair, and looked over his spectacles at his niece. He was taken aback.


Her father and mother! What had put it into her head to mention her father and mother, of whom he had never, during the twelve years she had lived with him, spoken to her? That the thoughts were self-matured, that she had any recollections or speculations about her parents, he could not fancy.
"Your father and mother? Who has been talking to you about them?"
"Nobody; but I remember something of what papa was, and I pity mamma. Where is she?"
This "Where is she?" had been on Caroline's lips hundreds of times before, but till now she had never uttered it.

Her father and mother! What had put them into her head? During the twelve years she had lived with him, he had never mentioned them. That she had any recollections or ideas about her parents, he could not imagine.
"Your father and mother? Who has been talking to you about them?"
"Nobody; but I remember something of what papa was, and I pity mamma. Where is she?"
This "Where is she?" had been on Caroline's lips hundreds of times before, but till now she had never uttered it.


"I hardly know," returned Mr. Helstone; "I was little acquainted with her. I have not heard from her for years: but wherever she is, she thinks nothing of you; she never inquires about you. I have reason to believe she does not wish to see you. Come, it is school-time. You go to your cousin at ten, don't you? The clock has struck."
Perhaps Caroline would have said more; but Fanny, coming in, informed her master that the churchwardens wanted to speak to him in the vestry. He hastened to join them, and his niece presently set out for the cottage.

"I hardly know," returned Mr. Helstone. "I have not heard from her for years: but wherever she is, she thinks nothing of you; she never inquires about you. I have reason to believe she does not wish to see you. Come, it is school-time. You go to your cousin at ten, don't you?"
Perhaps Caroline would have said more, but Fanny came in with a message for the rector; and his niece set out for the cottage.


The road from the rectory to Hollow's Mill inclined downwards; she ran, therefore, almost all the way. Exercise, the fresh air, the thought of seeing Robert, at least of being on his premises, in his vicinage, revived her somewhat depressed spirits quickly. Arriving in sight of the white house, and within hearing of the thundering mill and its rushing watercourse, the first thing she saw was Moore at his garden gate. There he stood, in his belted Holland blouse, a light cap covering his head, which undress costume suited him. He was looking down the lane, not in the direction of his cousin's approach. She stopped, withdrawing a little behind a willow, and studied his appearance.

The road from the rectory to Hollow's Mill led downwards; she ran almost all the way. Exercise, the fresh air, and the thought of seeing Robert revived her somewhat depressed spirits. Arriving in sight of the white house, the first thing she saw was Moore at his garden gate. He stood in his belted Holland shirt, a light cap on, looking the other way down the lane. She stopped behind a willow, and studied him.


"He has not his peer," she thought. "He is as handsome as he is intelligent. What a keen eye he has! What clearly-cut, spirited features--thin and serious, but graceful! I do like his face, I do like his aspect, I do like him so much--better than any of those shuffling curates, for instance--better than anybody; bonny Robert!"

"He has no equal," she thought. "He is as handsome as he is intelligent. What a keen eye he has! What clearly-cut, thin and serious features! I do like his face. I do like him so much - better that those shuffling curates - better than anybody; bonny Robert!"


She sought "bonny Robert's" presence speedily. For his part, when she challenged his sight, I believe he would have passed from before her eyes like a phantom, if he could; but being a tall fact, and no fiction, he was obliged to stand the greeting. He made it brief. It was cousin-like, brother-like, friend-like, anything but lover-like. The nameless charm of last night had left his manner: he was no longer the same man: or, at any rate, the same heart did not beat in his breast. Rude disappointment, sharp cross! At first the eager girl would not believe in the change, though she saw and felt it. It was difficult to withdraw her hand from his, till he had bestowed at least something like a kind pressure; it was difficult to turn her eyes from his eyes, till his looks had expressed something more and fonder than that cool welcome.

She greeted "bonny Robert". For his part, I believe he would have disappeared like a phantom, if he could; but he was obliged to stay. He made his greeting brief and cousin-like. The charm of last night had left his manner: he was no longer the same man.
Such sharp disappointment! At first the eager girl would not believe in the change. It was difficult to withdraw her hand from his; it was difficult to turn her eyes from his eyes, till he had expressed something fonder than that cool welcome.


A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it: ask no questions, utter no remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread, and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves are martyrized; do not doubt that your mental stomach--if you have such a thing--is strong as an ostrich's; the stone will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation: close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test--some, it is said, die under it--you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the time, and so cannot borrow courage of that hope. Nature, however, as has been intimated, is an excellent friend in such cases, sealing the lips, interdicting utterance, commanding a placid dissimulation--a dissimulation often wearing an easy and gay mien at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passing away, and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less fortifying because it is half-bitter.

A masculine lover can urge explanation: a feminine lover can say nothing - if she did, the result would be shame and anguish. Take the matter as you find it: ask no questions, utter no remonstrance. You expected bread, and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don't shriek. You held out your hand for an egg, and you were given a scorpion. Show no consternation: close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting you. Never mind; in time, after your hand has quivered long with torture, the scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson - how to endure without a sob. For the rest of your life, if you survive the test - some, it is said, die under it - you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. You will pretend an easy and placid manner at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness in time, and then a half-bitter stoicism.


Half-bitter! Is that wrong? No; it should be bitter: bitterness is strength--it is a tonic. Sweet, mild force following acute suffering you find nowhere; to talk of it is delusion. There may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack. If energy remains, it will be rather a dangerous energy--deadly when confronted with injustice.

Half-bitter? No; it should be bitter: bitterness is strength - it is a tonic.


Who has read the ballad of "Puir Mary Lee"--that old Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor by what hand? Mary had been ill-used--probably in being made to believe that truth which was falsehood. She is not complaining, but she is sitting alone in the snowstorm, and you hear her thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a model heroine under her circumstances, but they are those of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl. Anguish has driven her from the ingle-nook of home to the white-shrouded and icy hills. Crouched under the "cauld drift," she recalls every image of horror--"the yellow-wymed ask," "the hairy adder," "the auld moon-bowing tyke," "the ghaist at e'en,", "the sour bullister," "the milk on the taed's back." She hates these, but "waur she hates Robin-a-Ree."
"Oh, ance I lived happily by yon bonny burn-- The warld was in love wi' me; But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn, And curse black Robin-a-Ree!
"Then whudder awa, thou bitter biting blast, And sough through the scrunty tree, And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast, And n'er let the sun me see!
"Oh, never melt awa, thou wreath o' snaw, That's sae kind in graving me; But hide me frae the scorn and guffaw O' villains like Robin-a-Ree!"


But what has been said in the last page or two is not germane to Caroline Helstone's feelings, or to the state of things between her and Robert Moore. Robert had done her no wrong; he had told her no lie; it was she that was to blame, if any one was. What bitterness her mind distilled should and would be poured on her own head. She had loved without being asked to love--a natural, sometimes an inevitable chance, but big with misery.

Caroline felt that Robert had done her no wrong; he had told her no lie. It was she that was to blame, if anyone was. Any bitterness should be poured on her own head. She had loved without being asked to love.


Robert, indeed, had sometimes seemed to be fond of her; but why? Because she had made herself so pleasing to him, he could not, in spite of all his efforts, help testifying a state of feeling his judgment did not approve nor his will sanction. He was about to withdraw decidedly from intimate communication with her, because he did not choose to have his affections inextricably entangled, nor to be drawn, despite his reason, into a marriage he believed imprudent. Now, what was she to do? To give way to her feelings, or to vanquish them? To pursue him, or to turn upon herself? If she is weak, she will try the first expedient--will lose his esteem and win his aversion; if she has sense, she will be her own governor, and resolve to subdue and bring under guidance the disturbed realm of her emotions. She will determine to look on life steadily, as it is; to begin to learn its severe truths seriously, and to study its knotty problems closely, conscientiously.
It appeared she had a little sense, for she quitted Robert quietly, without complaint or question, without the alteration of a muscle or the shedding of a tear, betook herself to her studies under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time went home without lingering.
When she had dined, and found herself in the rectory drawing-room alone, having left her uncle over his temperate glass of port wine, the difficulty that occurred to and embarrassed her was, "How am I to get through this day?"

Robert, indeed, had sometimes seemed to be fond of her; but why? He could not help finding her pleasing - but his judgment did not approve the feeling, nor did he wish it. He withdrew because he did not choose to have his affections entangled, nor to be drawn into a marriage he believed imprudent.
Now, what was she to do? To give way to her feelings, or to vanquish them? To pursue him, or to turn upon herself? If she is weak, she will try the first and will lose his esteem; if she has any sense, she will govern her emotions. She will determine to look on life steadily, as it is; to begin to learn its severe truths.
It appeared she had a little sense, for she quitted Robert quietly, without complaint, without moving a muscle or shedding a tear, betook herself to her studies under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time went home without lingering.
When she had dined, and found herself alone, the difficulty that occurred to her was, "How am I to get through this day?"


Last night she had hoped it would be spent as yesterday was, that the evening would be again passed with happiness and Robert. She had learned her mistake this morning; and yet she could not settle down, convinced that no chance would occur to recall her to Hollow's Cottage, or to bring Moore again into her society.
He had walked up after tea more than once to pass an hour with her uncle. The door-bell had rung, his voice had been heard in the passage just at twilight, when she little expected such a pleasure; and this had happened twice after he had treated her with peculiar reserve; and though he rarely talked to her in her uncle's presence, he had looked at her relentingly as he sat opposite her work-table during his stay. The few words he had spoken to her were comforting; his manner on bidding her good-night was genial. Now, he might come this evening, said False Hope. She almost knew it was False Hope which breathed the whisper, and yet she listened.
She tried to read--her thoughts wandered; she tried to sew--every stitch she put in was an _ennui_, the occupation was insufferably tedious; she opened her desk and attempted to write a French composition--she wrote nothing but mistakes.

Last night she had hoped that the evening would be again passed happily with Robert. She had learned her mistake; and yet she could not settle down.
More than once, Robert had walked up after tea to spend an hour with her uncle. The door-bell had rung, his voice had been heard in the passage at twilight; and this had happened twice after he had treated her with peculiar reserve. Though he rarely talked to her in her uncle's presence, he had looked at her relentingly, and had bid her good-night kindly. Now, he might come this evening, False Hope whispered. She almost knew it was False Hope, and yet she listened.
She tried to read - her thoughts wandered; she tried to sew - but it was unbearably tedious; she opened her desk and attempted to write a French composition - she wrote nothing but mistakes.


Suddenly the door-bell sharply rang; her heart leaped; she sprang to the drawing-room door, opened it softly, peeped through the aperture. Fanny was admitting a visitor--a gentleman--a tall man--just the height of Robert. For one second she thought it was Robert--for one second she exulted; but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone undeceived her. That voice was an Irish voice, consequently not Moore's, but the curate's--Malone's. He was ushered into the dining-room, where, doubtless, he speedily helped his rector to empty the decanters.

Suddenly the door-bell rang. Her heart leaped; she sprang to the door, and peeped through. Fanny was admitting a visitor - a tall man - just the height of Robert. For one second she exulted; but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone was Irish. It was the curate, Malone. He was ushered into the dining-room.


It was a fact to be noted, that at whatever house in Briarfield, Whinbury, or Nunnely one curate dropped in to a meal--dinner or tea, as, the case might be--another presently followed, often two more. Not that they gave each other the rendezvous, but they were usually all on the run at the same time; and when Donne, for instance, sought Malone at his lodgings and found him not, he inquired whither he had posted, and having learned of the landlady his destination, hastened with all speed after him. The same causes operated in the same way with Sweeting. Thus it chanced on that afternoon that Caroline's ears were three times tortured with the ringing of the bell and the advent of undesired guests; for Donne followed Malone, and Sweeting followed Donne; and more wine was ordered up from the cellar into the dining-room (for though old Helstone chid the inferior priesthood when he found them "carousing," as he called it, in their own tents, yet at his hierarchical table he ever liked to treat them to a glass of his best), and through the closed doors Caroline heard their boyish laughter, and the vacant cackle of their voices. Her fear was lest they should stay to tea, for she had no pleasure in making tea for that particular trio. What distinctions people draw! These three were men--young men--educated men, like Moore; yet, for her, how great the difference! Their society was a bore--his a delight.

At whatever house one curate dropped in to dine, another presently followed, often two more. Not that they gave each other the rendezvous, but they were usually all on the run at the same time; so that when Donne, for instance, sought Malone at his lodgings and found him gone out, he inquired of the landlady where he was and then hastened after him.
Thus it chanced on that afternoon that Caroline's ears were three times tortured with the ringing of the bell; for Donne followed Malone, and Sweeting followed Donne. More wine was ordered up from the cellar; and through the closed doors Caroline heard their boyish laughter, and the vacant cackle of their voices. She was afraid they would stay to tea, for she had no pleasure in making tea for that trio.


Not only was she destined to be favoured with their clerical company, but Fortune was at this moment bringing her four other guests--lady guests, all packed in a pony-phaeton now rolling somewhat heavily along the road from Whinbury: an elderly lady and three of her buxom daughters were coming to see her "in a friendly way," as the custom of that neighbourhood was. Yes, a fourth time the bell clanged. Fanny brought the present announcement to the drawing-room,--
"Mrs. Sykes and the three Misses Sykes."
When Caroline was going to receive company, her habit was to wring her hands very nervously, to flush a little, and come forward hurriedly yet hesitatingly, wishing herself meantime at Jericho. She was, at such crises, sadly deficient in finished manner, though she had once been at school a year. Accordingly, on this occasion, her small white hands sadly maltreated each other, while she stood up, waiting the entrance of Mrs. Sykes.
In stalked that lady, a tall, bilious gentlewoman, who made an ample and not altogether insincere profession of piety, and was greatly given to hospitality towards the clergy. In sailed her three daughters, a showy trio, being all three well-grown, and more or less handsome.

Yet not only was she destined to be favoured with their company, but also with four other guests - ladies packed in a phaeton now rolling heavily along the road from Whinbury: an elderly lady and three of her buxom daughters were coming to see her. Yes, a fourth time the bell clanged. Fanny announced:
"Mrs. Sykes and the three Misses Sykes."
Caroline wrung her hands, and stood up nervously, awaiting their entrance. In stalked a tall, bilious gentlewoman. In sailed her three daughters, a showy trio, all well-grown, and more or less handsome.


In English country ladies there is this point to be remarked. Whether young or old, pretty or plain, dull or sprightly, they all (or almost all) have a certain expression stamped on their features, which seems to say, "I know--I do not boast of it, but I _know_ that I am the standard of what is proper; let every one therefore whom I approach, or who approaches me, keep a sharp lookout, for wherein they differ from me--be the same in dress, manner, opinion, principle, or practice--therein they are wrong."
Mrs. and Misses Sykes, far from being exceptions to this observation, were pointed illustrations of its truth. Miss Mary--a well-looked, well-meant, and, on the whole, well-dispositioned girl--wore her complacency with some state, though without harshness. Miss Harriet--a beauty--carried it more overbearingly; she looked high and cold. Miss Hannah, who was conceited, dashing, pushing, flourished hers consciously and openly. The mother evinced it with the gravity proper to her age and religious fame.

English country ladies, whether young or old, pretty or plain, almost all have a certain expression stamped on their features, which seems to say, "I know - I do not boast of it, but I know that I am the standard of what is proper; let everyone else, therefore, keep a sharp lookout, for if they differ from me in dress, opinion or anything else, then they are wrong."
Mrs. and Misses Sykes were illustrations of this. Miss Mary - a well-looking, well-meaning girl - wore her complacency with some state, though without harshness. Miss Harriet - a beauty - carried it more overbearingly; she looked high and cold. Miss Hannah, who was conceited, dashing and pushing, flourished hers openly. The mother showed it with the gravity proper to her age.


The reception was got through somehow. Caroline "was glad to see them" (an unmitigated fib), hoped they were well, hoped Mrs. Sykes's cough was better (Mrs. Sykes had had a cough for the last twenty years), hoped the Misses Sykes had left their sisters at home well; to which inquiry the Misses Sykes, sitting on three chairs opposite the music-stool, whereon Caroline had undesignedly come to anchor, after wavering for some seconds between it and a large arm-chair, into which she at length recollected she ought to induct Mrs. Sykes--and indeed that lady saved her the trouble by depositing herself therein--the Misses Sykes replied to Caroline by one simultaneous bow, very majestic and mighty awful. A pause followed. This bow was of a character to ensure silence for the next five minutes, and it did. Mrs. Sykes then inquired after Mr. Helstone, and whether he had had any return of rheumatism, and whether preaching twice on a Sunday fatigued him, and if he was capable of taking a full service now; and on being assured he was, she and all her daughters, combining in chorus, expressed their opinion that he was "a wonderful man of his years."
Pause second.
Miss Mary, getting up the steam in her turn, asked whether Caroline had attended the Bible Society meeting which had been held at Nunnely last Thursday night. The negative answer which truth compelled Caroline to utter--for last Thursday evening she had been sitting at home, reading a novel which Robert had lent her--elicited a simultaneous expression of surprise from the lips of the four ladies.

The reception was got through somehow. Caroline "was glad to see them", hoped they were well, hoped Mrs. Sykes's cough was better (Mrs. Sykes had had a cough for the last twenty years), hoped the younger sisters at home were well; to which inquiry the Misses Sykes replied by one simultaneous bow, very majestic and mighty awful.
A pause followed. Mrs. Sykes then inquired after Mr. Helstone, and his rheumatism; and she and all her daughters, combining in chorus, expressed their opinion that he was "a wonderful man for his years."
Pause second.
Miss Mary, getting up steam in her turn, asked whether Caroline had attended the Bible Society meeting at Nunnely last Thursday night. Caroline's negative answer brought a simultaneous expression of surprise from the lips of the four ladies.


"We were all there," said Miss Mary--"mamma and all of us. We even persuaded papa to go. Hannah would insist upon it. But he fell asleep while Mr. Langweilig, the German Moravian minister, was speaking. I felt quite ashamed, he nodded so."
"And there was Dr. Broadbent," cried Hannah--"such a beautiful speaker! You couldn't expect it of him, for he is almost a vulgar-looking man."
"But such a dear man," interrupted Mary.
"And such a good man, such a useful man," added her mother.

"We were all there," said Miss Mary. "We even persuaded papa to go. But he fell asleep while the German Moravian minister was speaking. I felt quite ashamed."
"And there was Dr. Broadbent," cried Hannah, "such a beautiful speaker! Yet he is almost a vulgar-looking man."
"But such a dear man," interrupted Mary.
"And such a good man, such a useful man," added her mother.


"Only like a butcher in appearance," interposed the fair, proud Harriet. "I couldn't bear to look at him. I listened with my eyes shut."
Miss Helstone felt her ignorance and incompetency. Not having seen Dr. Broadbent, she could not give her opinion. Pause third came on. During its continuance, Caroline was feeling at her heart's core what a dreaming fool she was, what an unpractical life she led, how little fitness there was in her for ordinary intercourse with the ordinary world. She was feeling how exclusively she had attached herself to the white cottage in the Hollow, how in the existence of one inmate of that cottage she had pent all her universe. She was sensible that this would not do, and that some day she would be forced to make an alteration. It could not be said that she exactly wished to resemble the ladies before her, but she wished to become superior to her present self, so as to feel less scared by their dignity.

"Only like a butcher in appearance," interposed the fair, proud Harriet. "I couldn't bear to look at him. I listened with my eyes shut."
Miss Helstone felt her ignorance. Not having seen Dr. Broadbent, she could not give her opinion. Pause third came on. During it, Caroline was feeling what a dreaming fool she was, and how unfit to mix with the ordinary world. She was conscious of how exclusively she had attached herself to the white cottage in the Hollow, and one inmate of that cottage. She was aware that this would not do, and that some day she would be forced to change. She did not exactly wish to resemble the ladies before her, but she wished to become superior to her present self, so as to feel less scared by their dignity.


The sole means she found of reviving the flagging discourse was by asking them if they would all stay to tea; and a cruel struggle it cost her to perform this piece of civility. Mrs. Sykes had begun, "We are much obliged to you, but----" when in came Fanny once more.
"The gentlemen will stay the evening, ma'am," was the message she brought from Mr. Helstone.

The sole means she found of reviving the flagging discourse was by asking them if they would stay to tea. Mrs. Sykes had begun, "We are much obliged to you, but-" when in came Fanny.
"The gentlemen will stay the evening, ma'am," was the message she brought.