As to Louis Moore himself, he had the air of a man used to this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for a time. His faculties seemed walled up in him, and were unmurmuring in their captivity. He never laughed; he seldom smiled; he was uncomplaining. He fulfilled the round of his duties scrupulously. His pupil loved him; he asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared that he would accept nothing more--in that abode at least; for when his cousin Caroline made gentle overtures of friendship, he did not encourage them--he rather avoided than sought her. One living thing alone, besides his pale, crippled scholar, he fondled in the house, and that was the ruffianly Tartar, who, sullen and impracticable to others, acquired a singular partiality for him--a partiality so marked that sometimes, when Moore, summoned to a meal, entered the room and sat down unwelcomed, Tartar would rise from his lair at Shirley's feet and betake himself to the taciturn tutor. Once--but once--she noticed the desertion, and holding out her white hand, and speaking softly, tried to coax him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, as his manner was, but yet disregarded the invitation, and coolly settled himself on his haunches at Louis Moore's side. That gentleman drew the dog's big, black-muzzled head on to his knee, patted him, and smiled one little smile to himself.

As to Louis Moore himself, he had the air of a man used to this life. His faculties seemed walled up in him. He never laughed; he seldom smiled; he was uncomplaining. His pupil Henry loved him; he asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared that he would accept nothing more; for when Caroline made gentle overtures of friendship, he did not encourage them.
In the house one living thing alone was his friend, besides Henry: and that was the ruffianly Tartar, who had a singular partiality for him - a partiality so marked that sometimes, when Moore entered the room, Tartar would rise from Shirley's feet and take himself to the taciturn tutor. Once she noticed this desertion, and softly tried to coax him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, but remained at Louis Moore's side. That gentleman patted him, and smiled to himself.


An acute observer might have remarked, in the course of the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his allegiance to Shirley, and was once more couched near her footstool, the audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated him again. He pricked up his ears at the word; he started erect at the gesture, and came, with head lovingly depressed, to receive the expected caress. As it was given, the significant smile again rippled across Moore's quiet face.
* * * * *
"Shirley," said Caroline one day, as they two were sitting alone in the summer-house, "did you know that my cousin Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?"
Shirley's reply was not so prompt as her responses usually were, but at last she answered, "Yes--of course; I knew it well."
"I thought you must have been aware of the circumstance."
"Well! what then?"
"It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never mentioned it to me."

An acute observer might have remarked, that same evening, that after Tartar had returned to Shirley, and was once more lying near her footstool, the audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated him again. Tartar pricked up his ears and came to receive the expected caress. As it was given, the significant smile again rippled across Moore's quiet face.
"Shirley," said Caroline one day, as they two were sitting alone in the summer-house, "did you know that my cousin Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?"
Shirley's reply was not so prompt as usual, but at last she answered, "Yes, of course."
"It puzzles me that you never spoke of it


"Why should it puzzle you?"
"It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a great deal--you talk freely. How was that circumstance never touched on?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.

, although you talk a great deal. How was it never mentioned?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.


"You are a singular being!" observed her friend. "I thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor, and now again here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me."
"I never made it a secret; I had no reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have told you. Besides, I thought you knew."

"You are a singular being! You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor, and now here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery."
"I never made it a secret. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have told you. Besides, I thought you knew."


"I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter. You don't like poor Louis. Why? Are you impatient at what you perhaps consider his _servile_ position? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly placed?"
"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the exclamation, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and with a movement of proud impatience Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.
"Yes," repeated Caroline, with mild firmness, "Robert's brother. He _is_ thus closely related to Grard Moore of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome or an air so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman were he free."

"I am puzzled about something else. You don't like poor Louis. Why? Is it his position? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly placed?"
"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the exclamation, uttered in a tone close to scorn; and with an impatient movement Shirley snatched a rose peeping through the open window.
"Yes," repeated Caroline, "Robert's brother. Louis is not so handsome as Robert; but he is as much a gentleman."


"Wise, humble, pious Caroline!" exclaimed Shirley ironically. "Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your panegyric. He is there in the garden," she continued, pointing through an aperture in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
"He is not ugly, Shirley," pleaded Caroline; "he is not ignoble. He is sad; silence seals his mind. But I believe him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very commendable in his disposition, Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does."

"Wise, humble, pious Caroline!" exclaimed Shirley ironically. "We should not despise plain features, nor an honest occupation, should we? There is your subject in the garden," she continued, pointing through the clustering creepers; Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
"He is not ugly, Shirley," pleaded Caroline; "he is not ignoble. He is sad; silence seals his mind. But I believe him to be intelligent; and if he had not something good about him, Mr. Hall would never seek his society."


Shirley laughed; she laughed again, each time with a slightly sarcastic sound. "Well, well," was her comment. "On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence; won't we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot--eh? Something commendable in his disposition!--_id est_, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him."

Shirley laughed sarcastically. "Well, well. Since he's Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence, eh, Cary? You believe him to be not quite an idiot, do you? Something good about him - not an absolute ruffian! Your opinion has weight with me; and I will speak to him."


He approached the summer-house. Unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.
"Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, "the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among the trees round. Something fluttered down as light as leaves. They were little birds, which, lighting on the sward at shy distance, hopped as if expectant.

He approached the summer-house. Unaware that it was occupied, he sat down on the step; Tartar, who had followed him, lay across his feet.
"Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his ear, which had been torn and chewed in a hundred battles, "This garden is not ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, caressing Tartar, who slobbered affectionately. A faint twittering commenced among the trees; little birds fluttered down, as light as leaves, and hopped expectantly on the grass.


"The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day," again soliloquized Louis. "They want some more biscuit. To-day I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprites, I have not a crumb for you."
He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
"A want easily supplied," whispered the listening Miss Keeldar.
She took from her reticule a morsel of sweet-cake; for that repository was never destitute of something available to throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows. She crumbled it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his hand.
"There," said she--"there is a providence for the improvident."
"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.

"The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day," said Louis. "They want some more biscuit. Today I have none - not a crumb, little sprites."
He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
"A want easily supplied," whispered Miss Keeldar.
She took from her reticule some sweet-cake; for she always carried something to throw to the chickens or sparrows. She crumbled it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his hand.
"There," said she; "there is a providence for the improvident."
"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.


"Even for you?"
"As pleasant for me as for any monarch."
"You take a sort of harsh, solitary triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements and the inanimate and lower animate creation."
"Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam's son, the heir of him to whom dominion was given over 'every living thing that moveth upon the earth.' Your dog likes and follows me. When I go into that yard, the pigeons from your dovecot flutter at my feet. Your mare in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better."
"And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you shade."
"And," continued Louis, "no caprice can withdraw these pleasures from me; they are _mine_."

"You take a sort of harsh solitary triumph in drawing pleasure from the lower creation."
"Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam's son, the heir of him to whom dominion was given over every living thing. Your dog likes and follows me. The pigeons from your dovecot flutter at my feet. Your mare in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better."
"And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you shade."
"And," continued Louis, "no caprice can withdraw these pleasures from me; they are mine."


He walked off. Tartar followed him, as if in duty and affection bound, and Shirley remained standing on the summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude tutor. It was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
"You see," remarked Caroline apologetically, "his feelings are so often hurt it makes him morose."
"You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, "he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so drop it henceforward and for ever."
"I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way," thought Caroline to herself, "and that renders Shirley so distant to him. Yet I wonder she cannot make allowance for character and circumstances. I wonder the general modesty, manliness, sincerity of his nature do not plead with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsiderate, so irritable."

He walked off. Tartar followed him, and Shirley remained standing on the summer-house step. Caroline saw that her face was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
"You see," remarked Caroline apologetically, "his feelings are so often hurt it makes him morose."
"You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, "he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel; so drop it."
"I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way," thought Caroline to herself, "and that makes Shirley distant to him. Yet I wonder she cannot make allowances. She is not often so inconsiderate, so irritable."


* * * * *
The verbal testimony of two friends of Caroline's to her cousin's character augmented her favourable opinion of him. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a "real gentleman;" there was not such another in Briarfield. He--William--"could do aught for that man. And then to see how t' bairns liked him, and how t' wife took to him first minute she saw him. He never went into a house but t' childer wor about him directly. Them little things wor like as if they'd a keener sense nor grown-up folks i' finding our folk's natures."
Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.
"But he is so grave," objected Caroline.

Two friends of Caroline increased her favourable opinion of Louis Moore. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a "real gentleman; to see how t' bairns liked him, and how t' wife took to him first minute she saw him. Them childer ha' a keen sense i' finding out folk's natures." And Mr. Hall stated that Louis Moore was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.
"But he is so grave," objected Caroline.


"Grave! the finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine."
"At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being misanthropical."
"Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there--in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him. They think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis's way."

"Grave! the finest company in the world!" said Mr. Hall. "Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be with him; and his temper and nature are fine."
"At Fieldhead he looks gloomy."
"Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there. The Sympsons are good people, but not the folks to comprehend him."


"I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him."
"She doesn't know him--she doesn't know him; otherwise she has sense enough to do justice to his merits."
"Well, I suppose she doesn't know him," mused Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long. She was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice.

"I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him."
"She doesn't know him. She has sense enough to do justice to his merits."
"Well, I suppose she doesn't know him," mused Caroline; but before long she had to refuse Miss Keeldar even this excuse for her prejudice.


One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance; his lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation. He began to ransack his tutor's desk for a piece of wax or twine necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search. He rummaged compartment after compartment; and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon--not a ball of cord or a lump of beeswax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them. "What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!" he said.

One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, an amiable and affectionate boy whom she liked. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance, and began to ransack his tutor's desk for a piece of twine he needed for his work. Moore was absent, out walking with Mr. Hall. Henry could not find what he wanted, though he rummaged in every compartment; and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon a little bundle of exercise-books, tied with tape. Henry looked at them.
"What rubbish Mr. Moore stores in his desk!" he said.


"I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully."
"What is it?"
"Old copy-books."
He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally her curiosity was excited to see its contents.
"If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?"
"Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore's desk is half mine--for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it--and I give you leave."

"I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully."
"What is it?"
"Old copy-books." He threw the bundle to Caroline.
"If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?"
"Oh, yes. Mr. Moore's desk is half mine - he lets me keep all sorts of things in it - and I give you leave."


On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her--"Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, ----shire" (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
"They are Shirley's, you see," said Henry carelessly.
"Did _you_ give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?"

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a peculiar but exquisitely clear hand. Caroline recognized the writing without needing to see the name signed at the end of every essay. Yet that name astonished her - "Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove", and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it, meditating. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
"They are Shirley's, you see," said Henry carelessly.
"Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?"


"She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language."
"I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast--you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick--as quick as Mr. Moore himself."

"She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language."
"I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing; she made lesson-time charming. She learned fast. French was nothing to her. She spoke it as quick as Mr. Moore himself."


"Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?"
"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley."
"_Desperately_ fond--you small simpleton! You don't know what you say."
"I _am desperately_ fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night."

"Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?"
"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night."


"He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration."
"He didn't. He never reproves and reproves, as girls' governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know."
"Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain."
"I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me."

Caroline laughed. "He would reprove you for exaggerating."
"He didn't. He only smiled, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor cripple, Miss Helstone, you know."
"Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and God has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain."
"I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me."


"Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't like schoolboys. I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But you are so different I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot," she muttered to herself, "than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read."
"I _am_ fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling."
Miss Keeldar here entered.

"Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't like schoolboys. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But I like you. You have almost as much sense as a man; you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read."
Miss Keeldar here entered.


"Henry," she said, "I have brought your lunch here. I shall prepare it for you myself."
She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil which resembled a toasting-fork.
"What are you two about," she continued, "ransacking Mr. Moore's desk?"
"Looking at your old copy-books," returned Caroline.
"My old copy-books?"
"French exercise-books. Look here! They must be held precious; they are kept carefully."

"Henry," she said, "I have brought your lunch. I shall prepare it myself."
She placed on the table a glass of milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a toasting-fork.
"What are you two doing, ransacking Mr. Moore's desk?" she asked.
"Looking at your old French copy-books," returned Caroline. "Look here! They must be considered precious; they are kept carefully."


She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up. "Did not know one was in existence," she said. "I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen fire, or curled the maid's hair at Sympson Grove.--What made you keep them, Henry?"
"It is not my doing. I should not have thought of it. It never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk. Perhaps he forgot them."

She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up. "Did not know one was in existence," she said. "I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen fire. What made you keep them, Henry?"
"I didn't. It never entered my head. Mr. Moore put them in the inner drawer of his desk. Perhaps he forgot them."


"C'est cela. He forgot them, no doubt," echoed Shirley. "They are extremely well written," she observed complacently.
"What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well. A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively--that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while."

"He forgot them, no doubt," echoed Shirley. "They are extremely well written," she added complacently.
"What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively - that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while."


Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, "That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow scene."
"I remember," said Henry. "Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried, 'Voil le Franais gagn!' He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you described."
"You have not forgotten, then, Hal?"

Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, "That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow scene."
"I remember," said Henry. "Mr. Moore said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw the landscape you described.


"Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon hung above."
"Where are his drawings, Harry? Caroline should see them."
"In his portfolio. But it is padlocked; he has the key."
"Ask him for it when he comes in."

I can remember him sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer lying under it, and the half-moon hung above."
"Where are his drawings, Harry? Caroline should see them."
"In his portfolio. But it is padlocked; he has the key."
"Ask him for it when he comes in."


"You should ask him, Shirley. You are shy of him now. You are grown a proud lady to him; I notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in her ear. "What queer discoveries I make day by day now!--I who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable creature! even this boy reproves you."
"I have forgotten 'auld lang syne,' you see, Harry," said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding Caroline.
"Which you never should have done. You don't deserve to be a man's morning star if you have so short a memory."

"You should ask him, Shirley. You are shy of him now. You are grown a proud lady to him; I notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in her ear. "What queer discoveries I make day by day now! Even this boy reproves you."
"I have forgotten old times, you see, Harry," said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding Caroline.
"Which you never should have done. You don't deserve to be a man's morning star if you have so short a memory."


"A man's morning star, indeed! and by 'a man' is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk while it is warm."
The young cripple rose and limped towards the fire; he had left his crutch near the mantelpiece.
"My poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding him.
"Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best, Shirley?" inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.
"O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet."
"Me or Mr. Malone?"

"A man's morning star, indeed! and by 'a man' is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your milk."
He rose and limped towards the fire.
"My poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest voice.
"Do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best, Shirley?" inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.
"O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet."
"Me or Mr. Malone?"


"You again, a thousand times."
"Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each."
"Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be anything more than a little pale lameter."
"Yes, I know."
"You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and yet potent as a giant and brave as a lion?"
"Admiral Horatio?"
"Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and Duke of Bronte; great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the world and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England; commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her thunder over the flood."
"A great man. But I am not warlike, Shirley; and yet my mind is so restless I burn day and night--for what I can hardly tell--to be--to do--to suffer, I think."

"You again, a thousand times."
"Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet tall."
"Have I not often told you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and yet as powerful as a giant and brave as a lion?"
"Admiral Horatio?"
"Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson; great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic; commander of England's navy, and hurler of her thunder over the flood."
"A great man. But I am not warlike, Shirley; and yet my mind is so restless."


"Harry, it is your mind, which is stronger and older than your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive; it lies in physical bondage. But it will work its own redemption yet. Study carefully not only books but the world. You love nature; love her without fear. Be patient--wait the course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor, Henry; but if you live you will be--listen to my prophecy--you will be an author, perhaps a poet."

"Harry, your mind is a captive. It is stronger and older than your frame. But be patient. Study carefully not only books but the world. You love nature; love her without fear. You will not be a soldier or a sailor, Henry; but - listen to my prophecy - you will be an author, perhaps a poet."


"An author! It is a flash--a flash of light to me! I will--I _will_! I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to you."
"You will write it that you may give your soul its natural release. Bless me! what am I saying? more than I understand, I believe, or can make good. Here, Hal--here is your toasted oatcake; eat and live!"

"An author! It is a flash of light to me! I will! I'll write a book so that I may dedicate it to you."
"You will write it so that you may give your soul its natural release. Bless me! what am I saying? more than I understand. Here is your toasted oatcake, Hal; eat and live!"


"Willingly!" here cried a voice outside the open window. "I know that fragrance of meal bread. Miss Keeldar, may I come in and partake?"
"Mr. Hall"--it was Mr. Hall, and with him was Louis Moore, returned from their walk--"there is a proper luncheon laid out in the dining-room and there are proper people seated round it. You may join that society and share that fare if you please; but if your ill-regulated tastes lead you to prefer ill-regulated proceedings, step in here, and do as we do."
"I approve the perfume, and therefore shall suffer myself to be led by the nose," returned Mr. Hall, who presently entered, accompanied by Louis Moore. That gentleman's eye fell on his desk, pillaged.
"Burglars!" said he.--"Henry, you merit the ferule."

"Willingly!" here cried a voice outside the open window. "Miss Keeldar, may I come in and partake?"
It was Mr. Hall, and with him was Louis Moore, returned from their walk.
"There is a proper luncheon laid out in the dining-room," said Shirley, "with proper people seated round it. You may join them if you please; but if your ill-regulated tastes lead you to prefer ill-regulated proceedings, step in here."
"I shall allow myself to be led by the nose," returned Mr. Hall, who entered along with Louis Moore. The latter's eye fell on his desk.
"Burglars!" said he. "Henry, you deserve the cane."


"Give it to Shirley and Caroline; they did it," was alleged, with more attention to effect than truth.
"Traitor and false witness!" cried both the girls. "We never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of laudable inquiry!"
"Exactly so," said Moore, with his rare smile. "And what have you ferreted out, in your 'spirit of laudable inquiry'?"
He perceived the inner drawer open.
"This is empty," said he. "Who has taken----"

"Shirley and Caroline did it."
"False!" cried both the girls. "We never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of laudable inquiry!"
"Exactly so," said Moore, with his rare smile. "And what have you ferreted out?"
He perceived the inner drawer was open. "This is empty," said he. "Who has taken-"


"Here, here!" Caroline hastened to say, and she restored the little packet to its place. He shut it up; he locked it in with a small key attached to his watch-guard; he restored the other papers to order, closed the repository, and sat down without further remark.
"I thought you would have scolded much more, sir," said Henry. "The girls deserve reprimand."
"I leave them to their own consciences."
"It accuses them of crimes intended as well as perpetrated, sir. If I had not been here, they would have treated your portfolio as they have done your desk; but I told them it was padlocked."
"And will you have lunch with us?" here interposed Shirley, addressing Moore, and desirous, as it seemed, to turn the conversation.

"Here!" Caroline hastened to say, and she restored the little packet to its place. He shut it up and locked it with a small key; he put the other papers in order, closed the desk, and sat down without further remark.
"I thought you would have scolded much more, sir," said Henry. "The girls deserve reprimand."
"I leave them to their own consciences."
"If I had not been here, they would have ransacked your portfolio too; but I told them it was padlocked."
"And will you have lunch with us?" here interposed Shirley, wishing, it seemed, to turn the conversation.


"Certainly, if I may."
"You will be restricted to new milk and Yorkshire oatcake."
"Va--pour le lait frais!" said Louis. "But for your oatcake!" and he made a grimace.
"He cannot eat it," said Henry. "He thinks it is like bran, raised with sour yeast."
"Come, then; by special dispensation we will allow him a few cracknels, but nothing less homely."

"Certainly, if I may."
"You will be restricted to milk and Yorkshire oatcake."
"Your oatcake!" He made a grimace.
"He cannot eat it," said Henry. "He thinks it is like bran."
"Come, then; we will allow him a few crackers."


The hostess rang the bell and gave her frugal orders, which were presently executed. She herself measured out the milk, and distributed the bread round the cosy circle now enclosing the bright little schoolroom fire. She then took the post of toaster-general; and kneeling on the rug, fork in hand, fulfilled her office with dexterity. Mr. Hall, who relished any homely innovation on ordinary usages, and to whom the husky oatcake was from custom suave as manna, seemed in his best spirits. He talked and laughed gleefully--now with Caroline, whom he had fixed by his side, now with Shirley, and again with Louis Moore. And Louis met him in congenial spirit. He did not laugh much, but he uttered in the quietest tone the wittiest things. Gravely spoken sentences, marked by unexpected turns and a quite fresh flavour and poignancy, fell easily from his lips. He proved himself to be--what Mr. Hall had said he was--excellent company. Caroline marvelled at his humour, but still more at his entire self-possession.

The hostess measured out the milk, and distributed the bread round the cosy circle. She then took the post of toaster-general, kneeling on the rug, fork in hand. Mr. Hall seemed in his best spirits: he talked and laughed gleefully. Louis met him in congenial spirit. He did not laugh much, but he uttered in a quiet tone the wittiest things. He proved to be excellent company. Caroline marvelled at his self-possession,


Nobody there present seemed to impose on him a sensation of unpleasant restraint. Nobody seemed a bore--a check--a chill to him; and yet there was the cool and lofty Miss Keeldar kneeling before the fire, almost at his feet.
But Shirley was cool and lofty no longer, at least not at this moment. She appeared unconscious of the humility of her present position; or if conscious, it was only to taste a charm in its lowliness. It did not revolt her pride that the group to whom she voluntarily officiated as handmaid should include her cousin's tutor. It did not scare her that while she handed the bread and milk to the rest, she had to offer it to him also; and Moore took his portion from her hand as calmly as if he had been her equal.
"You are overheated now," he said, when she had retained the fork for some time; "let me relieve you."
And he took it from her with a sort of quiet authority, to which she submitted passively, neither resisting him nor thanking him.
"I should like to see your pictures, Louis," said Caroline, when the sumptuous luncheon was discussed.--"Would not you, Mr. Hall?"

 when the cool and lofty Miss Keeldar was kneeling before the fire, almost at his feet.
But Shirley was not cool and lofty at this moment. She appeared not to mind that she was waiting on her cousin's tutor. When she offered him his portion, Moore took it from her hand as calmly as if he had been her equal.
"You are overheated now," he said; "let me relieve you."
And he took the toasting-fork from her with a quiet authority, to which she submitted passively.
"I should like to see your pictures, Louis," said Caroline. "Would not you, Mr. Hall?"


"To please you, I should; but, for my own part, I have cut him as an artist. I had enough of him in that capacity in Cumberland and Westmoreland. Many a wetting we got amongst the mountains because he would persist in sitting on a camp-stool, catching effects of rain-clouds, gathering mists, fitful sunbeams, and what not."
"Here is the portfolio," said Henry, bringing it in one hand and leaning on his crutch with the other.
Louis took it, but he still sat as if he wanted another to speak. It seemed as if he would not open it unless the proud Shirley deigned to show herself interested in the exhibition.
"He makes us wait to whet our curiosity," she said.
"You understand opening it," observed Louis, giving her the key. "You spoiled the lock for me once; try now."

"To please you, I should; but, for my own part, I had enough of him painting in Cumberland and Westmoreland. Many a wetting we got amongst the mountains because he would persist in sitting on a camp-stool, catching effects of rain-clouds, gathering mists, and what not."
"Here is the portfolio," said Henry.
Louis took it, and gave Shirley the key. "You spoiled the lock for me once; try now."


He held it. She opened it, and, monopolizing the contents, had the first view of every sketch herself. She enjoyed the treat--if treat it were--in silence, without a single comment. Moore stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder, and when she had done and the others were still gazing, he left his post and paced through the room.
A carriage was heard in the lane--the gate-bell rang. Shirley started.

She opened it, and had the first view of every sketch herself. She enjoyed the treat - if treat it were - in silence, without comment. Moore stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder, and when she had done and the others were still gazing, he left his post and paced through the room.
A carriage was heard in the lane - the gate-bell rang. Shirley started.


"There are callers," she said, "and I shall be summoned to the room. A pretty figure--as they say--I am to receive company. I and Henry have been in the garden gathering fruit half the morning. Oh for rest under my own vine and my own fig-tree! Happy is the slave-wife of the Indian chief, in that she has no drawing-room duty to perform, but can sit at ease weaving mats, and stringing beads, and peacefully flattening her pickaninny's head in an unmolested corner of her wigwam. I'll emigrate to the western woods."
Louis Moore laughed.
"To marry a White Cloud or a Big Buffalo, and after wedlock to devote yourself to the tender task of digging your lord's maize-field while he smokes his pipe or drinks fire-water."
Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the schoolroom door unclosed, admitting Mr. Sympson. That personage stood aghast when he saw the group around the fire.

"There are callers," she said, "and I shall be summoned. A pretty figure to receive company! Henry and I have been gathering fruit half the morning. Oh for rest under my own vine and my own fig-tree! Happy is the slave-wife of the Indian chief, who has no drawing-room duty to perform, but can sit at ease weaving mats, and stringing beads, and peacefully flattening her pickaninny's head in an unmolested corner of her wigwam. I'll emigrate."
Louis Moore laughed. "To marry a White Cloud or a Big Buffalo, and to devote yourself to the tender task of digging your lord's maize-field while he smokes his pipe."
Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the schoolroom door opened to admit Mr. Sympson. He looked aghast when he saw the group around the fire.


"I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar," he said. "I find quite a party."
And evidently from his shocked, scandalized air, had he not recognized in one of the party a clergyman, he would have delivered an extempore philippic on the extraordinary habits of his niece: respect for the cloth arrested him.
"I merely wished to announce," he proceeded coldly, "that the family from De Walden Hall, Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and Mr. Sam Wynne, are in the drawing-room." And he bowed and withdrew.
"The family from De Walden Hall! Couldn't be a worse set," murmured Shirley.

"I thought you were alone, Miss Keeldar," he said, with a scandalized air. "I find quite a party. The family from De Walden Hall are in the drawing-room." And he bowed and withdrew.
"The Wynnes! Couldn't be a worse set," murmured Shirley.


She sat still, looking a little contumacious, and very much indisposed to stir. She was flushed with the fire. Her dark hair had been more than once dishevelled by the morning wind that day. Her attire was a light, neatly fitting, but amply flowing dress of muslin; the shawl she had worn in the garden was still draped in a careless fold round her. Indolent, wilful, picturesque, and singularly pretty was her aspect--prettier than usual, as if some soft inward emotion, stirred who knows how, had given new bloom and expression to her features.
"Shirley, Shirley, you ought to go," whispered Caroline.
"I wonder why?"
She lifted her eyes, and saw in the glass over the fireplace both Mr. Hall and Louis Moore gazing at her gravely.
"If," she said, with a yielding smile--"if a majority of the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall people have claims on my civility, I will subdue my inclinations to my duty. Let those who think I ought to go hold up their hands."

She sat still, looking unwilling to stir, and flushed with the fire. Her dark hair was dishevelled; wilful she looked, and singularly pretty - prettier than usual, as if some soft inward emotion had given new bloom to her features.
"Shirley, Shirley, you ought to go," whispered Caroline.
"If most of those present tell me to go, I will do my duty. Let those who think I ought to go hold up their hands."


Again consulting the mirror, it reflected an unanimous vote against her.
"You must go," said Mr. Hall, "and behave courteously too. You owe many duties to society. It is not permitted you to please only yourself."
Louis Moore assented with a low "Hear, hear!"
Caroline, approaching her, smoothed her wavy curls, gave to her attire a less artistic and more domestic grace, and Shirley was put out of the room, protesting still, by a pouting lip, against her dismissal.
"There is a curious charm about her," observed Mr. Hall, when she was gone. "And now," he added, "I must away; for Sweeting is off to see his mother, and there are two funerals."
"Henry, get your books; it is lesson-time," said Moore, sitting down to his desk.

The vote against her was unanimous.
"You must go," said Mr. Hall, "and behave courteously too."
Louis Moore added a low "Hear, hear!"
Caroline smoothed Shirley's curls and tidied her clothing; she was sent out of the room, pouting at her dismissal.
"There is a curious charm about her. And now I must away," said Mr. Hall. Caroline left too.
"Henry, get your books; it is lesson-time," said Moore, sitting down to his desk.


"A curious charm!" repeated the pupil, when he and his master were left alone. "True. Is she not a kind of white witch?" he asked.
"Of whom are you speaking, sir?"
"Of my cousin Shirley."
"No irrelevant questions; study in silence."

"A curious charm!" repeated the pupil. "True. Is Shirley not a kind of white witch?"
"No irrelevant questions; study in silence."


Mr. Moore looked and spoke sternly--sourly. Henry knew this mood. It was a rare one with his tutor; but when it came he had an awe of it. He obeyed.

Mr. Moore looked and spoke sternly - sourly. Henry knew this mood. It was rare; but when it came he was in awe of it. He obeyed.


Martin had planned well. He had laid out a dexterously concerted scheme for his private amusement. But older and wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest-spun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of Fate, that fell housewife whose red arm none can control. In the present instance this broom was manufactured out of the tough fibres of Moore's own stubborn purpose, bound tight with his will. He was now resuming his strength, and making strange head against Mrs. Horsfall. Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First he discharged her from her valet duties; he would dress himself. Then he refused the coffee she brought him; he would breakfast with the family. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst the outcries of all the women in the place, he put his head out of doors.

Martin had planned well. But older and wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest-spun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of Fate. In this instance, the broom was made out of the tough fibres of Moore's own stubborn purpose. Moore was now resuming his strength, and making strange headway against Mrs. Horsfall. Each morning he amazed that matron with fresh astonishment. First he told her he would dress himself. Then he refused the coffee she brought him; he would breakfast with the family. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber.


The morning after, he followed Mr. Yorke to his counting-house, and requested an envoy to fetch a chaise from the Red House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon. Mr. Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him. The chaise was sent for, though Mrs. Yorke declared the step would be his death. It came. Moore, little disposed to speak, made his purse do duty for his tongue. He expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsfall by the chink of his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this language perfectly; it made amends for all previous contumacy. She and her patient parted the best friends in the world.

The morning after, he followed Mr. Yorke to his counting-house, and requested a chaise be fetched from the Red House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon. Mr. Yorke, instead of opposing, aided him. The chaise was sent for, though Mrs. Yorke declared the step would be his death. Moore, little disposed to speak, expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsfall by the chink of his coin. At this, the latter and her patient parted the best friends in the world.


The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself to the parlour. He had Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite so easy a task as the pacification of her housemaids. There she sat plunged in sullen dudgeon, the gloomiest speculations on the depths of man's ingratitude absorbing her thoughts. He drew near and bent over her; she was obliged to look up, if it were only to bid him "avaunt." There was beauty still in his pale, wasted features; there was earnestness and a sort of sweetness--for he was smiling--in his hollow eyes.
"Good-bye!" he said, and as he spoke the smile glittered and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations now; a trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak state.

Next Moore betook himself to the parlour. He had Mrs. Yorke to appease; she sat plunged in sullen dudgeon, speculating gloomily on the depths of man's ingratitude. He bent over her; she was obliged to look up. There was beauty still in his pale, wasted features; there was earnestness and a sort of sweetness in his hollow eyes.
"Good-bye!" he said, smiling.


"And what are you going to leave us for?" she asked. "We will keep you, and do anything in the world for you, if you will only stay till you are stronger."
"Good-bye!" he again said; and added, "You have been a mother to me; give your wilful son one embrace."
Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek, then the other. She kissed him.
"What a trouble--what a burden I have been to you!" he muttered.

"You have been a mother to me; give your wilful son one embrace."
She kissed him.


"You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth!" was the answer. "I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollow's Cottage? Your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters than a child."
"Thank God! for I have had nursing enough to last me my life."
Here the little girls came in--Jessie crying, Rose quiet but grave. Moore took them out into the hall to soothe, pet, and kiss them. He knew it was not in their mother's nature to bear to see any living thing caressed but herself. She would have felt annoyed had he fondled a kitten in her presence.

"Who is to nurse you at Hollow's Cottage? Your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters than a child."
"Thank God! I have had nursing enough to last me my life."
Here the little girls came in - Jessie crying, Rose quiet but grave. Moore took them into the hall, out of their mother's sight, to soothe them; for their mother could not bear to see any living thing caressed but herself.


The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered it; but for them he had no farewell. To Mr. Yorke he only said, "You have a good riddance of me. That was an unlucky shot for you, Yorke; it turned Briarmains into an hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon."
He drew up the glass; the chaise rolled away. In half an hour he alighted at his own garden wicket. Having paid the driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that wicket an instant, at once to rest and to muse.

The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered it; but for them he had no farewell. To Mr. Yorke he only said, "That was an unlucky shot for you, Yorke; it turned Briarmains into a hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon."
The chaise rolled away. In half an hour he alighted at his own garden gate. Having dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that gate an instant, to rest and muse.


"Six months ago I passed out at this gate," said he, "a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies round--a world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me. Let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honourable living; in such doom I yet see some hardship but no degradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal dishonour. It is not so now; I know the difference. Ruin _is_ an evil, but one for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months--not an hour longer. If things by that time alter, which is not probable; if fetters, which now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade (of all things the most unlikely to happen), I might conquer in this long struggle yet--I might--good God!

"Six months ago I left here," said he, "a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser. A cold, grey world lies round - a world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. If the worst comes, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honourable living. Formerly, financial ruin was dishonour in my eyes. It is not so now. Ruin is an evil, but one for which I am prepared. I have calculated that I can put it off six months - not an hour longer. If things by that time alter, I might conquer yet.


what might I not do? But the thought is a brief madness; let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune's roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will go with me. Will none but Louis go? I cannot tell--I have no right to ask."
He entered the house.

But that thought is madness; let me see matters with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune's roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will go with me. None but Louis? I cannot tell - I have no right to ask."
He entered the house.


It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors--starless and moonless twilight; for though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fast locked. The mill-dam too was frozen. The Hollow was very still. Indoors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in the kitchen.
"Hortense," said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him off with his cloak, "I am pleased to come home."
Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective. Still, whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window; he came back to the fire.

It was twilight out of doors; indoors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour, and was preparing tea in the kitchen.
"Hortense," said Moore, as his sister bustled over to help him off with his cloak, "I am pleased to come home."
Although he had never before called the cottage his home, Hortense did not feel the novelty of this. Still, she was pleased that he was pleased.
He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window; he came back to the fire.


"Hortense!"
"Mon frre?"
"This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant--unusually bright, somehow."
"It is true, brother; I have had the whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence."
"Sister, I think on this first day of your return home you ought to have a friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place."
"True, brother. If it were not late I might send for Miss Mann."
"So you might; but it really is too late to disturb that good lady, and the evening is much too cold for her to come out."
"How thoughtful in you, dear Grard! We must put it off till another day."

"Hortense! This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant."
"I have had the whole house thoroughly cleaned in your absence, brother."
"Sister, I think you ought to have a friend or so to tea, if only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place."
"True, brother. If it were not late I might send for Miss Mann."
"So you might; but it is too late to disturb that good lady, and too cold for her to come out.


"I want some one to-day, dear sister--some quiet guest, who would tire neither of us."
"Miss Ainley?"
"An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory with a request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening with you."
"Would it not be better to-morrow, dear brother?"
"I should like her to see the place as it is just now; its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much to your credit."
"It might benefit her in the way of example."
"It might and must; she ought to come."
He went into the kitchen.

I want some quiet guest today, who would tire neither of us."
"Miss Ainley?"
"An excellent person; but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory with a request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening."
"Would it not be better tomorrow, dear brother?"
"I should like her to see the place as it is just now; its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much to your credit."
"It might benefit her in the way of example."


"Sarah, delay tea half an hour." He then commissioned her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself, and addressed "Miss Helstone."
Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear of damage to her toast already prepared when the messenger returned, and with him the invited guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah's stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed, her graceful merino dress and delicate collar all trim and spotless, her gay little work-bag in her hand. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at the new tortoise-shell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and to speak to the canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on its perch; and then she betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting; a sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room; the newly-kindled lamp burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
"I am pleased to come home," repeated Mr. Moore.

The note was duly written and addressed to Miss Helstone. Very soon the messenger returned, and with him the guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped upstairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls smoothed, her graceful merino dress trim and spotless, her gay little work-bag in her hand. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at the new kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and then she went into the parlour.
The friendly welcome was of the tranquil sort that befitted cousins meeting; a quiet pleasure diffused itself through the room; the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
"I am pleased to come home," repeated Mr. Moore.


They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone. All about her seemed elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn. No longer crushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had tasted the cordial of heart's ease, and been lifted on the wing of hope.

They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the improvement in her health. Her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone: no longer crushed and saddened, she looked like one who had been lifted on the wing of hope.


After tea Hortense went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now become resistless. During her absence the talk passed into Caroline's hands. She took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. A pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar topics; a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights of expression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it with animation.
"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Moore, after earnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
"Do I?"
"I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer me more than I had calculated."
"I am glad of that. And I _really_ cheer you?"

After tea Hortense went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for a month, and the impulse to perform that operation was now irresistible. During her absence Caroline took up the conversation with ease; her elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar topics; a new music in the soft voice gently surprised the listener; her face was kindled with animation.
"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Moore, after gazing at her for some minutes.
"Do I?"
"I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer me more than I had calculated."
"I am glad of that.


"You look brightly, move buoyantly, speak musically."
"It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek and hope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?"

It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is. And to see health on your cheek and hope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?"


"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now, when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her; and I _do_ attend to her. I am her waiting-woman as well as her child. I like--you would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then, she is charming to talk to--full of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information, exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her I like her better, I esteem her more highly, I love her more tenderly."

"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now I say it is my turn to attend to her. You would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And she is charming to talk to - full of wisdom, observant, rich in information. Every day I like her better, I love her more tenderly."


"_That_ for one thing, then, Cary. You talk in such a way about 'mamma' it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady."
"She is not old, Robert."
"Of the young lady, then."
"She does not pretend to be young."
"Well, of the matron. But you said 'mamma's' affection was _one_ thing that made you happy; now for the other thing."
"I am glad you are better."
"What besides?"
"I am glad we are friends."

"You talk in such a way about 'mamma' it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady."
"She is not old, Robert."
"Well, of the matron. But you said mamma's affection was one thing that made you happy; now for the other thing."
"I am glad you are better."
"What besides?"
"I am glad we are friends.


"You and I?"
"Yes. I once thought we never should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and consequently will not please you."
"Ah, don't! I cannot bear to think ill of you."
"And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve."
"Well, but I half know your 'thing;' indeed, I believe I know all about it."
"You do not."
"I believe I do."

I once thought we never should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit."
"Ah, don't! I cannot bear to think ill of you."
"And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve."
"Well, I half know your 'thing;' indeed, I believe I know all about it."


"Whom does it concern besides me?"
She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.
"Speak, Cary! Whom does it concern?"
She tried to utter a name, and could not.
"Tell me; there is none present but ourselves. Be frank."
"But if I guess wrong?"
"I will forgive. Whisper, Cary."

"Whom does it concern besides me?"
She coloured; she hesitated.
"Speak, Cary! There is none present but ourselves. Whisper, Cary."


He bent his ear to her lips. Still she would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that Moore waited and was resolved to hear something, she at last said, "Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night."
"And you and she curled your hair together?"
"How do you know that?"
"And then you chattered, and she told you----"
"It was not at curling-hair time, so you are not as wise as you think; and, besides, she didn't tell me."
"You slept together afterwards?"

Still she would not speak. Seeing that Moore waited, she at last said, "Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectory about a week ago. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night."
"And you and she curled your hair together?"
"How do you know that?"
"And then you chattered, and she told you-"
"It was not at curling-hair time, so you are not as wise as you think; and, besides, she didn't tell me. We slept


"We occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep much; we talked the whole night through."
"I'll be sworn you did! And then it all came out--_tant pis_. I would rather you had heard it from myself."
"You are quite wrong. She did not tell me what you suspect--she is not the person to proclaim such things; but yet I inferred something from parts of her discourse. I gathered more from rumour, and I made out the rest by instinct."

 in the same bed, although we did not sleep much; we talked the whole night through."
"I'll be sworn you did! And then it all came out."
"You are quite wrong. She did not tell me; but I inferred something, and I gathered more from rumour, and I made out the rest by instinct."


"But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for the sake of her money, and that she refused me indignantly and scornfully (you need neither start nor blush; nor yet need you prick your trembling fingers with your needle. That is the plain truth, whether you like it or not)--if such was not the subject of her august confidences, on what point did they turn? You say you talked the whole night through; what about?"
"About things we never thoroughly discussed before, intimate friends as we have been; but you hardly expect I should tell you?"
"Yes, yes, Cary; you will tell me. You said we were friends, and friends should always confide in each other."
"But you are sure you won't repeat it?"
"Quite sure."
"Not to Louis?"

"But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for the sake of her money, and that she refused me indignantly and scornfully (you need not blush; that is the plain truth) - if such was not the subject of her confidences, what was? You say you talked the whole night through; what about?"
"About things we never thoroughly discussed before; but you hardly expect I should tell you?"
"Yes, Cary; you said we were friends, and friends should always confide in each other."
"But you are sure you won't repeat it? Not even to Louis?"


"Not even to Louis. What does Louis care for young ladies' secrets?"
"Robert, Shirley is a curious, magnanimous being."
"I dare say. I can imagine there are both odd points and grand points about her."
"I have found her chary in showing her feelings; but when they rush out, river-like, and pass full and powerful before you--almost without leave from her--you gaze, wonder; you admire, and--I think--love her."
"You saw this spectacle?"
"Yes; at dead of night, when all the house was silent, and starlight and the cold reflection from the snow glimmered in our chamber, then I saw Shirley's heart."
"Her heart's core? Do you think she showed you that?"

"Not even to Louis. What does Louis care for young ladies' secrets?"
"Robert, Shirley is a curious being. She does not often show her feelings; but when they rush out, river-like, full and powerful, you gaze, you wonder; you admire, and - I think - love her. At dead of night, when all the house was silent, and starlight and the cold reflection from the snow glimmered in our chamber, then I saw Shirley's heart - her heart's core.


"Her heart's core."
"And how was it?"
"Like a shrine, for it was holy; like snow, for it was pure; like flame, for it was warm; like death, for it was strong."
"Can she love? tell me that."
"What think you?"
"She has loved none that have loved her yet."
"Who are those that have loved her?"
He named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nunnely.
"She has loved none of these."

It was like a shrine, for it was holy and pure; like flame, for it was warm, and strong."
"Can she love? She has loved none that have loved her yet." And Moore named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nunnely.
"She has loved none of these."


"Yet some of them were worthy of a woman's affection."
"Of some women's, but not of Shirley's."
"Is she better than others of her sex?"
"She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife--rashly."
"I can imagine that."
"She spoke of you----"
"Oh, she did! I thought you denied it."
"She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towards you. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know."

"Yet some of them were worthy of a woman's affection," argued Moore.
"Of some women's, but not of Shirley's."
"Is she better than others of her sex?"
"She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take rashly as a wife."
"I can imagine that."
"She spoke of you - not in the way you imagined; but I made her tell me what she felt towards you. I wanted to know."


"So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously, doubtless?"
"She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed."
"But how does she feel?"
"Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud."
"I'll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me."

"She thinks of me contemptuously, no doubt?"
"She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister fondly feels towards a brother."
"That is nonsense. She is too rich and proud to see me as a brother."


"You don't know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand each other."
"It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh--perhaps uncharitable. I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love----"
"Shirley incapable of love!"
"That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property."
"Shirley has hurt your _amour propre_."
"She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of tenderness, nor a spark of passion for her."

"You don't know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy that you cannot know her. You and she will never thoroughly understand each other."
"Maybe. I admire her; but I believe she is incapable of love-"
"Shirley incapable of love!"
"And that she will never marry. She will not relinquish her power or her pride."
"She hurt your feelings."
"She did; though I had not a spark of tenderness or passion for her."


"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."
"And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye."
"I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or the cherries are sour--'hung too high.'"
"She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is--great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!"

"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."
"She is very pretty. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was tempted by the gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is!"


"But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it."
"And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart--gentle but just, compassionate but upright?"
"Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection."
"Which won't satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besides affection--something far stronger, sweeter, warmer--will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?"
Caroline was moved, much moved.

"He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it. We will remember that we too shall be judged, and so we will give no scorn, only affection."
"Which won't satisfy me, I warn you. Something besides affection - something far stronger, sweeter, warmer - will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?"
Caroline was much moved.


"Be calm, Lina," said Moore soothingly. "I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don't look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating allusions; we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am--more pitiable than formidable."
She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still, pale as you are," she said, as her eye fell under his.
"To return to Shirley," pursued Moore: "is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?"
"She loves."

"Be calm, Lina," said Moore soothingly. "I have no right or intention to perturb your mind for months to come. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am - more pitiable than formidable."
She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still, pale as you are," she said.
"To return to Shirley," pursued Moore: "is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?"
"She loves."


"Platonically--theoretically--all humbug!"
"She loves what I call sincerely."
"Did she say so?"
"I cannot affirm that she said so. No such confession as 'I love this man or that' passed her lips."
"I thought not."

"Platonically - theoretically - all humbug!"
"She loves sincerely. No confession of love passed her lips


"But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of--another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would _make_ her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man's happiness is dear to her as her own life."
"Who is it?"

; but the feeling showed itself in spite of her. She spoke of one man in a way that could not be misunderstood. Having asked her opinion of you, I demanded a second opinion of - another person about whom I had made puzzled conjectures. I was determined to make her speak, and at last out it came, in a whisper, and yet with such soft vehemence. I am sure that man's happiness is as dear to her as her own life."
"Who is it?"


"I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, but looked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. I triumphed over her mercilessly."
"What right had _you_ to triumph? Do you mean to say _you_ are fancy free?"
"Whatever _I_ am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found her captor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress she is not."

"I charged her with being in love. She just looked at me. It was quite enough. The lioness has found her captor."


"So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?"
"I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial."
"You confess it--a _fellow_-slave?"
"I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar."
"And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?"
"You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have done with you."
"We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?"
"Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are a Cyclops."

"And who, pray, is the hero who has achieved such a conquest?"
"You still speak cynically; but I will make you change your note before I have done."
"We will see.


"Can she marry him?"
"You will see."
"I want to know his name, Cary."
"Guess it."
"Is it any one in this neighbourhood?"
"Yes, in Briarfield parish."
"Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don't know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal."
"Guess."

What is his name, Cary?"
"Guess it."
"Is it any one in this neighbourhood?"
"Yes, in Briarfield parish."
"I don't know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal.


"Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity, after all."
Caroline smiled.
"Do _you_ approve the choice?" asked Moore.
"Quite, _quite_."
"Then I _am_ puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate in its working. It boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from 'mamma,' I suppose."
"And I _quite_ approve, and mamma was charmed."

I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity, after all."
Caroline smiled.
"Do you approve the choice?" asked Moore.
"Quite."
"Then I am puzzled; for you have a correct, steady judgment, inherited from 'mamma,' I suppose."
"I quite approve, and mamma was charmed."


"'Mamma' charmed--Mrs. Pryor! It can't be romantic, then?"
"It _is_ romantic, but it is also right."
"Tell me, Cary--tell me out of pity; I am too weak to be tantalized."
"You shall be tantalized--it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as you pretend."
"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor at your feet."
"You had better not. I shall decline to help you up."

"Mrs. Pryor charmed! It can't be romantic, then?"
"It is romantic, but it is also right."
"Tell me, Cary; I am too weak to be tantalized."
"You shall be tantalized - it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as you pretend."
"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor at your feet


"And worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace her faith and kneel and adore."
"Robert, Robert, sit still; don't be absurd. I will go to Hortense if you commit extravagances."
"You have stolen my senses. Just now nothing will come into my mind but _les litanies de la sainte Virge. Rose cleste, reine des anges_!"

 and worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace her faith and kneel and adore."
"Robert, sit still; don't be absurd, or I will go to Hortense."
"You have stolen my senses. Heavenly rose, queen of angels!"


"_Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or_--is not that the jargon? Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle."
"But 'mamma' charmed--there's the puzzle."
"I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her. 'Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"
"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She is going to be your aunt."

"Sit quietly, and guess your riddle. I'll tell you what mamma said: 'Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"
"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. Shirley is going to be your aunt."


"I'll tell my uncle; I'll tell Shirley!" cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. "Guess again, Robert; your blunders are charming."
"It is the parson--Hall."
"Indeed, no; he is mine, if you please."
"Yours! Ay, the whole generation of women in Briarfield seem to have made an idol of that priest. I wonder why; he is bald, sand-blind, gray-haired."
"Fanny will be here to fetch me before you have solved the riddle, if you don't make haste."

"I'll tell my uncle!" cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. "Guess again, Robert."
"It is the parson - Hall."
"Indeed, no; he is mine, if you please."
"Yours! Ay, all the women in Briarfield seem to idolise that priest. I wonder why; he is bald and grey-haired.


"I'll guess no more--I am tired; and then I don't care. Miss Keeldar may marry _le grand Turc_ for me."
"Must I whisper?"
"That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense; come near, a little nearer, my own Lina. I care for the whisper more than the words."
She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind, with information that Fanny was come. The hour of converse was over.

I'll guess no more - I am tired. Miss Keeldar may marry the Grand Turk for all I care."
"Must I whisper?"
"Quickly. Here comes Hortense."
She whispered. Robert gave a start, and a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind. The hour of converse was over.


Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences. He was waiting at the foot of the staircase as Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.
"Must I call Shirley a noble creature now?" he asked.
"If you wish to speak the truth, certainly."
"Must I forgive her?"
"Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?"
"Must I at length love her downright, Cary?"

Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences as Caroline put on her shawl before departing.
"Must I forgive Shirley now?" he asked.
"Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?"
"Must I at length love her, Cary?"


Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement towards him, something between the loving and the petulant.
"Only give the word, and I'll try to obey you."
"Indeed, you must not love her; the bare idea is perverse."
"But then she is handsome, peculiarly handsome. Hers is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."
"It is not you who are to say these things. Now, Robert, be good."

Caroline looked up keenly. "Indeed, you must not; the idea is perverse."
"But she is handsome. Hers is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."
"Now, Robert, be good."


"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances. There is no heart which I can call mine in this breast."
"So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Good-night."
"Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want you to stay?"
"Because you most wish to retain when you are most certain to lose."
"Listen; one other word. Take care of your own heart--do you hear me?"
"There is no danger."

"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances. I have no heart which I can call mine."
"So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Good-night."
"Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want you to stay? One more word. Take care of your own heart - do you hear me?"
"There is no danger."


"I am not convinced of that. The Platonic parson, for instance."
"Who--Malone?"
"Cyril Hall. I owe more than one twinge of jealousy to that quarter."
"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the other day a plant you had given her.--Fanny, I am ready."

"I am not convinced of that. The parson, for one: Cyril Hall."
"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the other day a plant you had given her. Goodbye, Robert."


Time wore on, and spring matured. The surface of England began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her hills fresh, her gardens blooming; but at heart she was no better. Still her poor were wretched, still their employers were harassed. Commerce, in some of its branches, seemed threatened with paralysis, for the war continued; England's blood was shed and her wealth lavished--all, it seemed, to attain most inadequate ends. Some tidings there were indeed occasionally of successes in the Peninsula, but these came in slowly; long intervals occurred between, in which no note was heard but the insolent self-felicitations of Bonaparte on his continued triumphs. Those who suffered from the results of the war felt this tedious, and, as they thought, hopeless struggle against what their fears or their interests taught them to regard as an invincible power, most insufferable. They demanded peace on any terms. Men like Yorke and Moore--and there were thousands whom the war placed where it placed them, shuddering on the verge of bankruptcy--insisted on peace with the energy of desperation.
They held meetings, they made speeches, they got up petitions to extort this boon; on what terms it was made they cared not.

Spring matured, and the surface of England began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her gardens bloomed; but at heart she was no better. Still her poor were wretched, still their employers were harassed. Commerce seemed threatened with paralysis, for the war continued; England's blood was shed and her wealth lavished, it seemed, in vain. There were occasionally tidings of successes in the Peninsula, but these came in slowly. Men like Yorke and Moore, shuddering on the verge of bankruptcy, insisted on peace with the energy of desperation.


All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish; and taken in bodies, they are intensely so. The British merchant is no exception to this rule: the mercantile classes illustrate it strikingly. These classes certainly think too exclusively of making money; they are too oblivious of every national consideration but that of extending England's--that is, their own--commerce. Chivalrous feeling, disinterestedness, pride in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land ruled by them alone would too often make ignominious submission--not at all from the motives Christ teaches, but rather from those Mammon instils. During the late war, the tradesmen of England would have endured buffets from the French on the right cheek and on the left; their cloak they would have given to Napoleon, and then have politely offered him their coat also, nor would they have withheld their waistcoat if urged; they would have prayed permission only to retain their one other garment, for the sake of the purse in its pocket. Not one spark of spirit, not one symptom of resistance, would they have shown till the hand of the Corsican bandit had grasped that beloved purse; _then_, perhaps, transfigured at once into British bulldogs, they would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there they would have fastened, and there hung, inveterate, insatiable, till the treasure had been restored. Tradesmen, when they speak against war, always profess to hate it because it is a bloody and barbarous proceeding. You would think, to hear them talk, that they are peculiarly civilized--especially gentle and kindly of disposition to their fellow-men. This is not the case.

The British merchant classes are intensely selfish. They think exclusively of making money; they are oblivious of every national consideration but that of extending England's commerce. Chivalry is dead in their hearts. Tradesmen profess to hate war because it is bloody and barbarous; you would think, to hear them talk, that they are gentle and kindly to their fellow-men. This is not the case.


Many of them are extremely narrow and cold-hearted; have no good feeling for any class but their own; are distant, even hostile, to all others; call them useless; seem to question their right to exist; seem to grudge them the very air they breathe, and to think the circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in decent houses quite unjustifiable. They do not know what others do in the way of helping, pleasing, or teaching their race; they will not trouble themselves to inquire. Whoever is not in trade is accused of eating the bread of idleness, of passing a useless existence. Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation of shop-keepers!

Many of them are extremely narrow and cold-hearted; distant, even hostile, to all classes but their own, questioning their very right to exist. Long may it be ere England really becomes a nation of shop-keepers!


We have already said that Moore was no self-sacrificing patriot, and we have also explained what circumstances rendered him specially prone to confine his attention and efforts to the furtherance of his individual interest; accordingly, when he felt himself urged a second time to the brink of ruin, none struggled harder than he against the influences which would have thrust him over. What he _could_ do towards stirring agitation in the north against the war he did, and he instigated others whose money and connections gave them more power than he possessed. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was little reason in the demands his party made on Government. When he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and of all Europe arming to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld Russia rising, incensed and stern, to defend her frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, her dark native despotism, from the tread, the yoke, the tyranny of a foreign victor--he knew that England, a free realm, could not _then_ depute her sons to make concessions and propose terms to the unjust, grasping French leader. When news came from time to time of the movements of that MAN then representing England in the Peninsula, of his advance from success to success--that advance so deliberate but so unswerving, so circumspect but so certain, so "unhasting" but so "unresting;" when he read Lord Wellington's own dispatches in the columns of the newspapers, documents written by modesty to the dictation of truth--Moore confessed at heart that a power was with the troops of Britain, of that vigilant, enduring, genuine, unostentatious sort, which must win victory to the side it led, in the end. In the end! But that end, he thought, was yet far off; and meantime he, Moore, as an individual, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue; and he would fulfil his destiny.

Moore was no self-sacrificing patriot, and spoke out against the war. Sometimes, by flashes, he felt there was little reason in his demands. When he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and arming to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and Russia rising, incensed and stern, to defend her frozen soil, he knew that England could not make concessions to the grasping French leader. When he read Lord Wellington's dispatches in the newspapers, Moore felt that vigilant commander must win victory in the end. But the end, he thought, was still far off; and meantime he, Moore, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for.


He fulfilled it so vigorously that ere long he came to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the rector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, ceased to see him, would not even speak to him when they met. He intimated also to his niece, very distinctly, that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must for the present cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous one at the best, and most of the works it boasted were bad and frivolous, highly injurious in their tendency to weak female minds. He wondered (he remarked parenthetically) what noodle first made it the fashion to teach women French. Nothing was more improper for them. It was like feeding a rickety child on chalk and water gruel. Caroline must give it up, and give up her cousins too. They were dangerous people.

He soon came to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the rector. They quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, and would not speak to him when they met. He told his niece that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was a bad and frivolous one, and most works in French were highly injurious to weak female minds. Caroline must give up French, and give up her cousins too. They were dangerous people.


Mr. Helstone quite expected opposition to this order; he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about Caroline's movements, but a vague idea possessed him that she was fond of going to Hollow's Cottage; also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory. The Cossack had perceived that whereas if Malone stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable and charming, by pinching the ears of an aged black cat, which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet the accommodation of her footstool, or by borrowing a fowling-piece, and banging away at a tool shed door in the garden while enough of daylight remained to show that conspicuous mark, keeping the passage and sitting-room doors meantime uncomfortably open for the convenience of running in and out to announce his failures and successes with noisy _brusquerie_--he had observed that under such entertaining circumstances Caroline had a trick of disappearing, tripping noiselessly upstairs, and remaining invisible till called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, though he elicited no vivacities from the cat, did nothing to it, indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing it from the stool to his knee, and there letting it purr, climb to his shoulder, and rub its head against his cheek; though there was no ear-splitting cracking off of firearms, no diffusion of sulphurous gunpowder perfume, no noise, no boasting during his stay--that still Caroline sat in the room, and seemed to find wondrous content in the stitching of Jew-basket pin-cushions and the knitting of missionary-basket socks.

Mr. Helstone quite expected tears. He had a vague idea that she was fond of going to Hollow's Cottage; also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional presence at the rectory. He had perceived that when the Irish curate Malone visited, Caroline would disappear upstairs, and remain invisible till called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest, she stayed in the room, quietly stitching pin-cushions.


She was very quiet, and Robert paid her little attention, scarcely ever addressing his discourse to her; but Mr. Helstone, not being one of those elderly gentlemen who are easily blinded--on the contrary, finding himself on all occasions extremely wide-awake--had watched them when they bade each other good-night. He had just seen their eyes meet once--only once. Some natures would have taken pleasure in the glance then surprised, because there was no harm and some delight in it. It was by no means a glance of mutual intelligence, for mutual love secrets existed not between them. There was nothing then of craft and concealment to offend: only Mr. Moore's eyes, looking into Caroline's, felt they were clear and gentle; and Caroline's eyes, encountering Mr. Moore's, confessed they were manly and searching. Each acknowledged the charm in his or her own way. Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly. Mr. Helstone could, on the spot, have rated them both. They annoyed him. Why?

Robert paid her little attention; but Mr. Helstone had watched them when they bade each other good-night. He had seen their eyes meet only once. There was nothing in that glance to offend: only Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly.
Mr. Helstone was annoyed. Why?


Impossible to say. If you had asked him what Moore merited at that moment, he would have said a "horsewhip;" if you had inquired into Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a box on the ear; if you had further demanded the reason of such chastisements, he would have stormed against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would have no such folly going on under his roof.

Impossible to say. If you had asked him, he would have stormed against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would have no such folly going on under his roof.