Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he said, "Go into the mill, Sarah--there is the key--and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lantern and help me to light up the front."
Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently, with irregular but loud and alarming din. The hurried, agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the summons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On that still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. The guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, and declaring that "there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's Miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony, "rode lightly in," followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.

Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to the two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the alarm of one; to the other, the maid-servant, he said,
"Go into the mill, Sarah, and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Then get another lantern and help me to light up the front."
Returning to his horses, he unharnessed and stabled them with speed and care. Presently the mill-bell clanged out, with an irregular but loud and alarming din.
On that still night, it was heard a long way away. The guests in the Redhouse Inn were startled by the clamour, and declaring that "there must be summat to do at Hollow's Miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried there. Scarcely had they thronged into the yard, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on a shaggy pony, rode in, followed by another rider on a larger steed.


Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had saddled his hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servant, lit up his mill, whose wide and long front now glared one great illumination, throwing a sufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear of confusion arising from obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malone had at length issued from the counting-house, previously taking the precaution to dip his head and face in the stone water-jug; and this precaution, together with the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to him the possession of those senses which the punch had partially scattered. He stood with his hat on the back of his head, and his shillelah grasped in his dexter fist, answering much at random the questions of the newly-arrived party from the Redhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared, and was immediately confronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy pony.

Mr. Moore, meantime, had saddled his own horse, and had lit up his mill, whose long front was now illuminated. A deep hum of voices was heard. Mr. Malone had at last emerged from the counting-house, and stood with his shillelagh grasped in his fist. Mr. Moore appeared, and was immediately confronted by Mr. Helstone of the shovel hat and shaggy pony.


"Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want us to-night--me and the hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? I do not see a mask or a smutted face present; and there is not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect one?"
"Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moore coolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more go over to Stilbro' Moor."

"Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want us tonight - me and Tom here. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? There is not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect one?"
"I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moore coolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a few others go over to Stilbro' Moor."


"To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?"
"The wagons are come home an hour ago."
"Then all's right. What more would you have?"
"They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that scrawl."
Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of which the contents have before been given.

"To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?"
"The wagons are come home an hour ago."
"Then all's right."
"They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that scrawl."
Mr. Helstone read the note.


"Hum! They've only served you as they serve others. But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting help with some impatience. This is a wet night for such a berth. I and Tom will go with you. Malone may stay behind and take care of the mill. What is the matter with him? His eyes seem starting out of his head."
"He has been eating a mutton chop."

"Hum! Poor fellows in the ditch. This is a wet night for such a bed. Tom and I will go with you. Malone may stay behind and take care of the mill. What is the matter with him? His eyes seem starting out of his head."
"He has been eating a mutton chop."


"Indeed!--Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops to-night. You are left here in command of these premises--an honourable post!"
"Is anybody to stay with me?"
"As many of the present assemblage as choose.--My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go a little way with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been waylaid and assaulted by frame-breakers?"
The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and the rescue-party set out.

"Indeed! - Peter Augustus Malone, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops tonight. You are left in command of these premises!"
"Is anybody to stay with me?"
"As many of those present as choose. - My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been assaulted by frame-breakers?"
Three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them? Moore nodded, and the rescue-party set out.


Mademoiselle Moore had that morning a somewhat absent-minded pupil. Caroline forgot, again and again, the explanations which were given to her. However, she still bore with unclouded mood the chidings her inattention brought upon her. Sitting in the sunshine near the window, she seemed to receive with its warmth a kind influence, which made her both happy and good. Thus disposed, she looked her best, and her best was a pleasing vision.

Mademoiselle Moore had that morning a somewhat absent-minded pupil. Caroline forgot, again and again, the explanations which were given to her. However, she bore her teacher's chidings cheerfully. Sitting in the sunshine near the window, she felt both happy and good; and looked at her best.


To her had not been denied the gift of beauty. It was not absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her; she was fair enough to please, even at the first view. Her shape suited her age: it was girlish, light, and pliant; every curve was neat, every limb proportionate; her face was expressive and gentle; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at times with a winning beam that stole into the heart, with a language that spoke softly to the affections. Her mouth was very pretty; she had a delicate skin, and a fine flow of brown hair, which she knew how to arrange with taste; curls became her, and she possessed them in picturesque profusion. Her style of dress announced taste in the wearer--very unobtrusive in fashion, far from costly in material, but suitable in colour to the fair complexion with which it contrasted, and in make to the slight form which it draped. Her present winter garb was of merino--the same soft shade of brown as her hair; the little collar round her neck lay over a pink ribbon, and was fastened with a pink knot. She wore no other decoration.
So much for Caroline Helstone's appearance. As to her character or intellect, if she had any, they must speak for themselves in due time.

She was fair to look upon. Her figure was light and neat; her face was expressive and gentle; her eyes were handsome, with a winning beam that stole into the heart. Her mouth was very pretty; she had delicate skin, and a fine flow of curling brown hair, arranged with taste. Her style of dress was unobtrusive and inexpensive, but suited her fair complexion. Her present winter dress was of merino wool - the same soft shade of brown as her hair, with a pink ribbon at the collar. She wore no other decoration. So much for Caroline Helstone's appearance.


Her connections are soon explained. She was the child of parents separated soon after her birth, in consequence of disagreement of disposition. Her mother was the half-sister of Mr. Moore's father; thus, though there was no mixture of blood, she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was the brother of Mr. Helstone--a man of the character friends desire not to recall, after death has once settled all earthly accounts. He had rendered his wife unhappy. The reports which were known to be true concerning him had given an air of probability to those which were falsely circulated respecting his better-principled brother. Caroline had never known her mother, as she was taken from her in infancy, and had not since seen her; her father died comparatively young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some years been her sole guardian. He was not, as we are aware, much adapted, either by nature or habits, to have the charge of a young girl. He had taken little trouble about her education; probably he would have taken none if she, finding herself neglected, had not grown anxious on her own account, and asked, every now and then, for a little attention, and for the means of acquiring such amount of knowledge as could not be dispensed with. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was inferior, that her attainments were fewer than were usually possessed by girls of her age and station; and very glad was she to avail herself of the kind offer made by her cousin Hortense, soon after the arrival of the latter at Hollow's Mill, to teach her French and fine needle-work.

As to her family, she was the child of parents separated soon after her birth. Her mother was the half-sister of Mr. Moore's father; thus, though there was no shared blood, she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was Mr. Helstone's brother, and was a man whose character friends preferred not to recall after his death. He had made his wife unhappy. The truthful reports about his behaviour had made more credible those rumours which were falsely circulated about his better-principled brother.
Caroline had never known her mother, as she was taken from her in infancy. She had not seen her since. Her father died comparatively young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some years been her sole guardian. He was not much suited to have the charge of a young girl. He had taken little trouble about her education; probably he would have taken none if she had not grown anxious about it, and asked to acquire some knowledge. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was inferior, with fewer attainments than those of other girls of her age; and she was very glad of the kind offer made by her cousin Hortense to teach her French and fine needle-work.


Mdlle. Moore, for her part, delighted in the task, because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet quick pupil. She took Caroline precisely at her own estimate, as an irregularly-taught, even ignorant girl; and when she found that she made rapid and eager progress, it was to no talent, no application, in the scholar she ascribed the improvement, but entirely to her own superior method of teaching. When she found that Caroline, unskilled in routine, had a knowledge of her own, desultory but varied, the discovery caused her no surprise, for she still imagined that from her conversation had the girl unawares gleaned these treasures. She thought it even when forced to feel that her pupil knew much on subjects whereof she knew little. The idea was not logical, but Hortense had perfect faith in it.

Mlle. Moore, for her part, delighted in the task, because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet quick pupil. When she found that Caroline made rapid and eager progress, she ascribed the improvement entirely to her own superior teaching. She imagined that everything Caroline knew, she had learned from her, even on subjects of which she knew little herself. The idea was not logical, but Hortense had perfect faith in it.


Mademoiselle, who prided herself on possessing "un esprit positif," and on entertaining a decided preference for dry studies, kept her young cousin to the same as closely as she could. She worked her unrelentingly at the grammar of the French language, assigning her, as the most improving exercise she could devise, interminable "analyses logiques." These "analyses" were by no means a source of particular pleasure to Caroline; she thought she could have learned French just as well without them, and grudged excessively the time spent in pondering over "propositions, principales, et incidents;" in deciding the "incidente determinative," and the "incidente applicative;" in examining whether the proposition was "pleine," "elliptique," or "implicite." Sometimes she lost herself in the maze, and when so lost she would, now and then (while Hortense was rummaging her drawers upstairs--an unaccountable occupation in which she spent a large portion of each day, arranging, disarranging, rearranging, and counter-arranging), carry her book to Robert in the counting-house, and get the rough place made smooth by his aid. Mr. Moore possessed a clear, tranquil brain of his own. Almost as soon as he looked at Caroline's little difficulties they seemed to dissolve beneath his eye. In two minutes he would explain all, in two words give the key to the puzzle. She thought if Hortense could only teach like him, how much faster she might learn! Repaying him by an admiring and grateful smile, rather shed at his feet than lifted to his face, she would leave the mill reluctantly to go back to the cottage, and then, while she completed the exercise, or worked out the sum (for Mdlle. Moore taught her arithmetic too), she would wish nature had made her a boy instead of a girl, that she might ask Robert to let her be his clerk, and sit with him in the counting-house, instead of sitting with Hortense in the parlour.

Mademoiselle kept her young cousin to dry studies as closely as she could. She worked her unrelentingly at French grammar, giving her endless "analyses logiques." These were not pleasant to Caroline; she thought she could have learned French just as well without them, and grudged the time spent in pondering over "propositions, principales, et incidents;" and examining whether the proposition was "pleine," "elliptique," or "implicite."
Sometimes she lost herself in the maze, and while Hortense was busy upstairs, would carry her book to Robert in the counting-house, and get the rough place made smooth by his aid. Mr. Moore possessed a clear, tranquil brain. Caroline's little difficulties seemed to dissolve beneath his eye. In two minutes he would explain all. Repaying him by an admiring and grateful smile, she would leave the mill reluctantly to go back to the cottage, wishing nature had made her a boy instead of a girl, so that she might be Robert's clerk, and sit with him in the counting-house.


Occasionally--but this happened very rarely--she spent the evening at Hollow's Cottage. Sometimes during these visits Moore was away attending a market; sometimes he was gone to Mr. Yorke's; often he was engaged with a male visitor in another room; but sometimes, too, he was at home, disengaged, free to talk with Caroline. When this was the case, the evening hours passed on wings of light; they were gone before they were counted. There was no room in England so pleasant as that small parlour when the three cousins occupied it. Hortense, when she was not teaching, or scolding, or cooking, was far from ill-humoured; it was her custom to relax towards evening, and to be kind to her young English kinswoman. There was a means, too, of rendering her delightful, by inducing her to take her guitar and sing and play. She then became quite good-natured. And as she played with skill, and had a well-toned voice, it was not disagreeable to listen to her. It would have been absolutely agreeable, except that her formal and self-important character modulated her strains, as it impressed her manners and moulded her countenance.

Very occasionally she spent the evening at Hollow's Cottage. Sometimes during these visits Moore was away; but sometimes he was at home, and free to talk. When this was the case, the evening hours passed on wings of light. There was no room in England so pleasant as that small parlour when the three cousins occupied it. Hortense, when she was not teaching, or scolding, was good-humoured; she relaxed, and was kind to her young English kinswoman. Sometimes Caroline would ask her to play her guitar and sing; she played with skill, and had a well-toned voice. Her performance would have been completely agreeable, but for her self-important manner.


Mr. Moore, released from the business yoke, was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, a complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her questions. He was something agreeable to sit near, to hover round, to address and look at. Sometimes he was better than this--almost animated, quite gentle and friendly.
The drawback was that by the next morning he was sure to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed, in his quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely contrived their recurrence. This circumstance puzzled the inexperienced head of his cousin. "If I had a means of happiness at my command," she thought, "I would employ that means often. I would keep it bright with use, and not let it lie for weeks aside, till it gets rusty."

Mr. Moore, released from business, was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, agreeable and ready to respond to her questions. Sometimes he was almost animated, quite gentle and friendly.
The drawback was that by the next morning he was sure to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed, in his quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely asked for their recurrence. This puzzled his inexperienced cousin.
"If I had a means of happiness at my command," she thought, "I would employ it often, and not let it lie for weeks aside."


Yet she was careful not to put in practice her own theory. Much as she liked an evening visit to the cottage, she never paid one unasked. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she would refuse, because Robert did not second, or but slightly seconded the request. This morning was the first time he had ever, of his own unprompted will, given her an invitation; and then he had spoken so kindly that in hearing him she had received a sense of happiness sufficient to keep her glad for the whole day.
The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle, ever breathlessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen to parlour, now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's exercise or hearing her repetition-lesson. However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, she never commended: it was a maxim with her that praise is inconsistent with a teacher's dignity, and that blame, in more or less unqualified measure, is indispensable to it. She thought incessant reprimand, severe or slight, quite necessary to the maintenance of her authority; and if no possible error was to be found in the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air, or dress, or mien, which required correction.

Yet she was careful not to visit unasked, much though she enjoyed her evenings there. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she would refuse, because Robert did not second the request. This morning was the first time he had ever given her an invitation unprompted; and he had spoken so kindly that she was glad for the whole day.
The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle spent it in bustling from kitchen to parlour, now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's exercise or hearing her lesson. However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, Hortense never praised her, believing that praise was inconsistent with a teacher's dignity. She thought reprimand, however, necessary to maintain authority; and if no error was to be found in the lesson, she would correct the pupil's deportment or dress.


The usual affray took place about the dinner, which meal, when Sarah at last brought it into the room, she almost flung upon the table, with a look that expressed quite plainly, "I never dished such stuff i' my life afore; it's not fit for dogs." Notwithstanding Sarah's scorn, it was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a sort of pure of dried peas, which mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter lamentations that in this desolate country of England no haricot beans were to be had. Then came a dish of meat--nature unknown, but supposed to be miscellaneous--singularly chopped up with crumbs of bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in a mould--a queer but by no means unpalatable dish. Greens, oddly bruised, formed the accompanying vegetable; and a pt of fruit, conserved after a recipe devised by Madame Grard Moore's "grand'mre," and from the taste of which it appeared probable that "mlasse" had been substituted for sugar, completed the dinner.
Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery--indeed she rather liked it for a change; and it was well she did so, for had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such manifestation would have injured her in mademoiselle's good graces for ever; a positive crime might have been more easily pardoned than a symptom of distaste for the foreign comestibles.

The usual affray took place about the dinner, which Sarah almost flung upon the table, with a look that said quite plainly, "I never dished such stuff i' my life afore; it's not fit for dogs." It was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a pure of dried peas, followed by a dish of miscellaneous meat - chopped up with breadcrumbs, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in a mould - a strange but tasty dish.
Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery - indeed, she rather liked it; and it was just as well, for showing any distaste would have injured her in mademoiselle's good graces for ever.


Soon after dinner Caroline coaxed her governess-cousin upstairs to dress. This manuvre required management. To have hinted that the jupon, camisole, and curl-papers were odious objects, or indeed other than quite meritorious points, would have been a felony. Any premature attempt to urge their disappearance was therefore unwise, and would be likely to issue in the persevering wear of them during the whole day. Carefully avoiding rocks and quicksands, however, the pupil, on pretence of requiring a change of scene, contrived to get the teacher aloft; and, once in the bedroom, she persuaded her that it was not worth while returning thither, and that she might as well make her toilet now; and while mademoiselle delivered a solemn homily on her own surpassing merit in disregarding all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown, arranged her collar, hair, etc., and made her quite presentable. But Hortense would put the finishing touches herself, and these finishing touches consisted in a thick handkerchief tied round the throat, and a large, servant-like black apron, which spoiled everything. On no account would mademoiselle have appeared in her own house without the thick handkerchief and the voluminous apron. The first was a positive matter of morality--it was quite improper not to wear a fichu; the second was the ensign of a good housewife--she appeared to think that by means of it she somehow effected a large saving in her brother's income. She had, with her own hands, made and presented to Caroline similar equipments; and the only serious quarrel they had ever had, and which still left a soreness in the elder cousin's soul, had arisen from the refusal of the younger one to accept of and profit by these elegant presents.

Soon after dinner Caroline coaxed her governess to dress. This manuvre required management. To have hinted that the jupon - the stiff petticoat - camisole and curl-papers were odious objects would have been unwise, and would be likely to result in Hortense wearing them all day. However, the pupil managed to get the teacher upstairs; and, once in the bedroom, she persuaded her that she might as well get changed now; and while mademoiselle delivered a solemn homily on her own merit in disregarding all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown, arranged her collar and hair, and made her quite presentable.
But Hortense would put on the finishing touches herself - a thick handkerchief tied round the throat, and a large, servant-like black apron, which spoiled everything. The handkerchief was a fichu, worn for propriety; the apron was the sign of a good housewife - she appeared to think that it somehow caused a large saving in her brother's income. She had given Caroline similar items; and Caroline's refusal to accept them had caused the only serious quarrel they had ever had.


"I wear a high dress and a collar," said Caroline, "and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in addition; and my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one. I would rather make no change."
Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would probably have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr. Moore chanced to overhear a dispute on the subject, and decided that Caroline's little aprons would suffice, and that, in his opinion, as she was still but a child, she might for the present dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were long, and almost touched her shoulders.
There was no appeal against Robert's opinion, therefore his sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved entirely of the piquant neatness of Caroline's costume, and the ladylike grace of her appearance. Something more solid and homely she would have considered "beaucoup plus convenable."

"I wear a high collar," said Caroline, "and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in addition; and my short aprons do quite as well as that long one."
Yet Hortense would have insisted, had not Mr. Moore chanced to overhear, and decided that Caroline's little aprons would suffice, and that as she was still a child, she might for the present dispense with the fichu.
His sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved of the piquant and ladylike neatness of Caroline's costume. Something more solid and homely she would have considered much more fitting.


The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Mademoiselle, like most Belgian ladies, was specially skilful with her needle. She by no means thought it waste of time to devote unnumbered hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work, marvellous netting and knitting, and, above all, to most elaborate stocking-mending. She would give a day to the mending of two holes in a stocking any time, and think her "mission" nobly fulfilled when she had accomplished it. It was another of Caroline's troubles to be condemned to learn this foreign style of darning, which was done stitch by stitch, so as exactly to imitate the fabric of the stocking itself--a wearifu' process, but considered by Hortense Grard, and by her ancestresses before her for long generations back, as one of the first "duties of a woman." She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully torn stocking put into her hand while she yet wore a child's coif on her little black head; her "hauts faits" in the darning line had been exhibited to company ere she was six years old; and when she first discovered that Caroline was profoundly ignorant of this most essential of attainments, she could have wept with pity over her miserably-neglected youth.

The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Mademoiselle, like most Belgian ladies, was skilful with her needle, and devoted countless hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work, netting, knitting, and, above all, elaborate stocking-mending. She would give a day to mending two holes in a stocking, and think it a mission nobly fulfilled.
Caroline was condemned to learn this style of darning, which had to imitate exactly the fabric of the stocking - a wearisome process, but considered by Hortense as one of the first duties of a woman. She herself had been expert at darning since she was six; and when she first discovered that Caroline was ignorant of this essential skill, she could have wept with pity.


No time did she lose in seeking up a hopeless pair of hose, of which the heels were entirely gone, and in setting the ignorant English girl to repair the deficiency. This task had been commenced two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag yet. She did a few rows every day, by way of penance for the expiation of her sins. They were a grievous burden to her; she would much have liked to put them in the fire; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed her sitting and sighing over them, had proposed a private incremation in the counting-house; but to this proposal Caroline knew it would have been impolitic to accede--the result could only be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse condition. She adhered, therefore, to the ills she knew.
All the afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed, till the eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one of them, were weary. The sky since dinner had darkened; it had begun to rain again, to pour fast. Secret fears began to steal on Caroline that Robert would be persuaded by Mr. Sykes or Mr. Yorke to remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that there appeared no present chance. Five o'clock struck, and time stole on; still the clouds streamed. A sighing wind whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage; day seemed already closing; the parlour fire shed on the clear hearth a glow ruddy as at twilight.

She found a hopeless pair of stockings, and set the ignorant English girl to work.
This task had begun two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag still. They were a grievous burden to her; she would have liked to put them in the fire; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed her sighing over them, had proposed a private cremation in the counting-house; but Caroline knew it would have been unwise.
All this afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed. The sky had darkened; it had begun to rain again. Secret fears began to steal on Caroline that Robert would stay at Whinbury till it cleared. Five o'clock struck, and still the clouds streamed. A sighing wind whispered in the trees; day seemed already closing.


"It will not be fair till the moon rises," pronounced Mademoiselle Moore, "consequently I feel assured that my brother will not return till then. Indeed I should be sorry if he did. We will have coffee. It would be vain to wait for him."
"I am tired. May I leave my work now, cousin?"
"You may, since it grows too dark to see to do it well. Fold it up; put it carefully in your bag; then step into the kitchen and desire Sarah to bring in the goter, or tea, as you call it."
"But it has not yet struck six. He may still come."

"It will not be fine till the moon rises," pronounced Mlle Moore, "and I am sure that my brother will not return till then. We will have coffee. It would be vain to wait for him."
"I am tired. May I leave my work now, cousin?"
"You may, since it grows too dark to do it well. Fold it up; put it away carefully; then step into the kitchen and desire Sarah to bring in the tray."
"But it has not yet struck six. He may still come."


"He will not, I tell you. I can calculate his movements. I understand my brother."
Suspense is irksome, disappointment bitter. All the world has, some time or other, felt that. Caroline, obedient to orders, passed into the kitchen. Sarah was making a dress for herself at the table.
"You are to bring in coffee," said the young lady in a spiritless tone; and then she leaned her arm and head against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the fire.

"He will not, I tell you. I understand my brother."
Caroline went obediently into the kitchen, where Sarah was sewing herself a dress.
"You are to bring in coffee," she said in a spiritless tone; and then she leaned her arm and head against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the fire.


"How low you seem, miss! But it's all because your cousin keeps you so close to work. It's a shame!"
"Nothing of the kind, Sarah," was the brief reply.
"Oh! but I know it is. You're fit to cry just this minute, for nothing else but because you've sat still the whole day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so."
"Sarah, does your master often come home early from market when it is wet?"
"Never, hardly; but just to-day, for some reason, he has made a difference."

"How low you seem, miss! It's because your cousin keeps you so close at work. It's a shame!"
"Nothing of the kind, Sarah," was the reply.
"Oh! but I know it is. You're fit to cry, just because you've sat still the whole day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so."
"Sarah, does your master often come home early from market when it is wet?"
"Hardly ever; but just today he has.


"What do you mean?"
"He is come. I am certain I saw Murgatroyd lead his horse into the yard by the back-way, when I went to get some water at the pump five minutes since. He was in the counting-house with Joe Scott, I believe."
"You are mistaken."
"What should I be mistaken for? I know his horse surely?"
"But you did not see himself?"
"I heard him speak, though. He was saying something to Joe Scott about having settled all concerning ways and means, and that there would be a new set of frames in the mill before another week passed, and that this time he would get four soldiers from Stilbro' barracks to guard the wagon."

I saw Murgatroyd lead his horse into the yard five minutes since. He was in the counting-house with Joe Scott, I believe. I heard him saying something to Joe about having a new set of frames in the mill next week, and that this time he would get four soldiers from Stilbro' barracks to guard the wagon."


"Sarah, are you making a gown?"
"Yes. Is it a handsome one?"
"Beautiful! Get the coffee ready. I'll finish cutting out that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for it. I have some narrow satin ribbon of a colour that will just match it."
"You're very kind, miss."

"Sarah, are you making a gown?"
"Yes. Is it handsome?"
"Beautiful! Get the coffee. I'll finish cutting out that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for it. I have some satin ribbon that will just match it."
"You're very kind, miss."


"Be quick; there's a good girl. But first put your master's shoes on the hearth: he will take his boots off when he comes in. I hear him; he is coming."
"Miss, you are cutting the stuff wrong."
"So I am; but it is only a snip. There is no harm done."
The kitchen door opened; Mr. Moore entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned from her dressmaking occupation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute's time for some purpose. Bent over the dress, her face was hidden; there was an attempt to settle her features and veil their expression, which failed. When she at last met Mr. Moore, her countenance beamed.

"Be quick; there's a good girl. But first put your master's shoes on the hearth for him. I hear him coming."
The kitchen door opened; Mr. Moore entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned, but then bent over the dress again, her face hidden. There was an attempt to settle her features, which failed. When she at last looked up, she beamed.


"We had ceased to expect you. They asserted you would not come," she said.
"But I promised to return soon. _You_ expected me, I suppose?"
"No, Robert; I dared not when it rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled. Change everything. If you took cold, I should--we should blame ourselves in some measure."

"They said you would not come," she said.
"But I promised to return. You expected me, I suppose?"
"No, Robert; it rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled. Change your clothes. If you took cold, I should - we should blame ourselves."


"I am not wet through: my riding-coat is waterproof. Dry shoes are all I require. There--the fire is pleasant after facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles."
He stood on the kitchen hearth; Caroline stood beside him. Mr. Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept his eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the shelf above. Chancing for an instant to look down, his glance rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Sarah was gone into the parlour with the tray; a lecture from her mistress detained her there. Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.

"I am not wet through: my riding-coat is waterproof. Dry shoes are all I require. There - the fire is pleasant."
He stood on the hearth and glanced down for an instant on an uplifted face, flushed and smiling, shaded with silky curls. Sarah was gone into the parlour with the tray; Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.


"Oh!" said she, as if the action had unsealed her lips, "I was miserable when I thought you would not come. I am almost too happy now. Are you happy, Robert? Do you like to come home?"
"I think I do--to-night, at least."
"Are you certain you are not fretting about your frames, and your business, and the war?"
"Not just now."
"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's Cottage too small for you, and narrow, and dismal?"
"At this moment, no."

"Oh!" said she, "I was miserable when I thought you would not come. I am almost too happy now. Are you happy, Robert? Do you like to come home?"
"I think I do - tonight, at least."
"You are not fretting about your frames, and your business, and the war?"
"Not just now."
"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's Cottage too small and dismal for you?"
"At this moment, no."


"Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?"
"No more questions. You are mistaken if you think I am anxious to curry favour with rich and great people. I only want means--a position--a career."
"Which your own talent and goodness shall win you. You were made to be great; you _shall_ be great."

"And you are not bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?"
"No more questions. You are mistaken if you think I am anxious to curry favour with the rich. I only want a career."
"Which your own talent and goodness shall win you. You were made to be great."


"I wonder now, if you spoke honestly out of your heart, what recipe you would give me for acquiring this same greatness; but I know it--better than you know it yourself. Would it be efficacious? Would it work? Yes--poverty, misery, bankruptcy. Oh, life is not what you think it, Lina!"
"But you are what I think you."
"I am not."
"You are better, then?"
"Far worse."

"And how would that happen? Oh, life is not what you think it, Lina!"
"But you are what I think you."
"I am not. I am far worse," said Moore.


"No; far better. I know you are good."
"How do you know it?"
"You look so, and I feel you _are_ so."
"Where do you feel it?"
"In my heart."
"Ah! You judge me with your heart, Lina: you should judge me with your head."
"I do; and then I am quite proud of you. Robert, you cannot tell all my thoughts about you."

"No; far better. I know you are good. I feel in my heart you are so."
"Ah! You should judge me with your head, Lina."
"I do; and then I am quite proud of you."


Mr. Moore's dark face mustered colour; his lips smiled, and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he resolutely knit his brow.
"Think meanly of me, Lina," said he. "Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea. I make no pretension to be better than my fellows."
"If you did, I should not esteem you so much. It is because you are modest that I have such confidence in your merit."
"Are you flattering me?" he demanded, turning sharply upon her, and searching her face with an eye of acute penetration.
"No," she said softly, laughing at his sudden quickness. She seemed to think it unnecessary to proffer any eager disavowal of the charge.

Mr. Moore's face coloured; his lips smiled, and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he knit his brow.
"Think meanly of me, Lina," said he. "Men, in general, are a sort of scum, and I am no better than my fellows."
"It is because you are modest that I have such confidence in your merit."
"Then why do you say this, Caroline?" he demanded sharply.


"You don't care whether I think you flatter me or not?"
"No."
"You are so secure of your own intentions?"
"I suppose so."
"What are they, Caroline?"
"Only to ease my mind by expressing for once part of what I think, and then to make you better satisfied with yourself."
"By assuring me that my kinswoman is my sincere friend?"
"Just so. I am your sincere friend, Robert."
"And I am--what chance and change shall make me, Lina."

"Only to ease my mind by expressing what I think for once; and to make you better satisfied with yourself."
"By assuring me that you are my sincere friend?"
"Just so, Robert.


"Not my enemy, however?"
The answer was cut short by Sarah and her mistress entering the kitchen together in some commotion. They had been improving the time which Mr. Moore and Miss Helstone had spent in dialogue by a short dispute on the subject of "caf au lait," which Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as it was "the nature of coffee to be boiled in water," and which mademoiselle affirmed to be "un breuvage royal," a thousand times too good for the mean person who objected to it.
The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew into the parlour. Before Hortense followed them thither, Caroline had only time again to question, "Not my enemy, Robert?" And Moore, Quaker-like, had replied with another query, "Could I be?" And then, seating himself at the table, had settled Caroline at his side.
Caroline scarcely heard mademoiselle's explosion of wrath when she rejoined them; the long declamation about the "conduite indigne de cette mchante crature" sounded in her ear as confusedly as the agitated rattling of the china. Robert laughed a little at it, in very subdued sort, and then, politely and calmly entreating his sister to be tranquil, assured her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she should have her choice of an attendant amongst all the girls in his mill. Only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were most of them, he was informed, completely ignorant of household work; and pert and self-willed as Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse than the majority of the women of her class.

You are not my enemy, are you?"
The answer was cut short by Sarah and her mistress entering the kitchen in some commotion. They had been disputing about "caf au lait," which Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as coffee should be boiled in water; and which mademoiselle affirmed to be a royal beverage, a thousand times too good for Sarah.
As they all withdrew into the parlour, Caroline had only time again to question, "Not my enemy, Robert?"
And Moore had replied: "Could I be?" before he sat down at the table.
Caroline scarcely heard mademoiselle's explosion of wrath about Sarah; Robert laughed a little, and then, entreating his sister to be tranquil, assured her that she should have her choice of maid from all the girls in his mill. Only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were ignorant of household work; and just as pert and self-willed as Sarah was.


Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this conjecture: according to her, "ces paysannes anglaises taient tout insupportables." What would she not give for some "bonne cuisinire anversoise," with the high cap, short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her class--something better, indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears, did not partake the opinion of St. Paul that "it is a shame for a woman to go with her head uncovered;" but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair, which it was her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, and on Sundays to wear curled in front.)
"Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr. Moore, who, stern in public, was on the whole very kind in private.
"Merci du cadeau!" was the answer. "An Antwerp girl would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your factory;" then softening, "You are very good, dear brother--excuse my petulance--but truly my domestic trials are severe, yet they are probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants in Antwerp. Domestics are in all countries a spoiled and unruly set."

Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this.
"Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr. Moore, who, stern in public, was kind in private.
"An Antwerp girl would not stay, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your factory;" then softening, "You are very good, dear brother - excuse my petulance - but my domestic trials are severe. Yet I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants in Antwerp."


Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the trials of his revered mother. A good mother she had been to him, and he honoured her memory; but he recollected that she kept a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did here in England. Thus, therefore, he let the subject drop, and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded to console Hortense by fetching her music-book and guitar; and having arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck with a quiet fraternal kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most ruffled moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother's favourite songs.
Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vulgarizes; family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother, and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her everyday fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a "sourire plein de bont." She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline listened with nave interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at the close of the song, "I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!" achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.

Mr. Moore recalled his good mother's kitchen in Antwerp, and let the subject drop. He consoled Hortense by fetching her guitar, and asking her to play some of their mother's favourite songs.
Hortense, pleased, looked almost graceful, almost handsome; as she played, her everyday fretful look was gone. She sang with feeling. Seeing that Caroline listened with interest, this increased her good-humour. Caroline's exclamation at the close of the song, "I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!" rendered her charming for the evening.


It is true a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of _wishing_ and the duty of _trying_. "As Rome," it was suggested, "had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Grard Moore's education been completed in a week, or by merely _wishing_ to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work. She was ever remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry. Her masters had remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on." Once on the theme of her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked happy.

Cradled in blissful self-complacency, Hortense took up her knitting. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave the little parlour its best charm.


"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.
"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."
"Not play at chess?"
"No."
"Nor draughts, nor backgammon?"
"No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?"

"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore.
"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."
"Not play at chess?"
"No."
"Nor draughts, nor backgammon?"
"No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?"


"I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"
"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"
"A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it sounds, I must say no."
"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third--fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person among us--so selfish we are in our happiness--though we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."

"I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"
"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"
"For my part, I must say no."
"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third - fourth, I mean (she hastily glanced at Hortense), living person here - it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people of long gone generations speak to us and tell us their thoughts."


"Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?"
"Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book."
"An old English book?"

"Who shall be the speaker? Is he French?"
"No, Robert. Tonight you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book.


"Yes, an old English book--one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords."
"I must read Shakespeare?"
"You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours."
"With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"

An old book - that shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound like a lyre. Let glorious William touch your heart."
"I must read Shakespeare? - with a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"


"It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly--not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points."
"Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.
"Never mind her, sister; let her talk. Now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone."
Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the bookcase, returned with a book.

"It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly - not only your virtues, but your vices."
"What is she saying?" cried Hortense, who had been counting stitches.
"Never mind, sister; let her talk. Let her say anything she pleases tonight. It amuses me."
Caroline, who had been rummaging at the bookcase, returned with a book.


"Here's Shakespeare," she said, "and there's 'Coriolanus.' Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low and how high you are."
"Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."
"I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?"
"Ainsi, soit-il!"
"And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?"
"It appears so."
"And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to refuse to admire?"
"I don't know."

"Here's Coriolanus," she said. "Now, read, and discover at once how low and how high you are."
"Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."
"I am to be the teacher then? If you are all French, and sceptical and sneering


"If you do, Robert, I'll take Shakespeare away; and I'll shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go home."
"Sit down. Here I begin."
"One minute, if you please, brother," interrupted mademoiselle. "When the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies should always sew.--Caroline, dear child, take your embroidery. You may get three sprigs done to-night."
Caroline looked dismayed. "I can't see by lamp-light; my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen; if I listen, I cannot sew."

, I'll put on my bonnet and go home."
"Sit down. Here I begin."


"Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!" began Hortense. Mr. Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.
"Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening. I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent; and to ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes--she must look at the book."
He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.
The very first scene in "Coriolanus" came with smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.

He placed the book between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and began to read.
He relished the very first scene in Coriolanus; as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens suavely, as if he thought his irrational pride was right. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.


"There's a vicious point hit already," she said. "You sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sympathize with his famished fellow-men, and insults them. There, go on." He proceeded. The warlike portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, or should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter single-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel in the large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters who were speaking from that page before him.
He did not read the comic scenes well; and Caroline, taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him. From her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing, that the general character of her conversation that evening, whether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful--when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had been than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.

"There's a vicious point already," she said. "You sympathize with that proud patrician who insults his famished fellow-men. Go on."
He proceeded. The warlike parts did not rouse him much; yet the single-handed fight between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he went on, he began to revel in the picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters on the page.
He did not read the comic scenes well; so Caroline read these parts for him, with unexpected spirit and expression. Indeed, her conversation that evening, whether grave or gay, was intuitive - glittering like the fleeting ripple on a stream.


Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed like giant shades one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. He saw "the grim appearance," the dark face "bearing command in it," "the noble vessel with its tackle torn." With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; he was not scandalized by it; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error."
The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, which ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weakness, the death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy--all scenes made of condensed truth and strength--came on in succession and carried with them in their deep, fast flow the heart and mind of reader and listener.
"Now, have you felt Shakespeare?" asked Caroline, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.
"I think so."
"And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?"

Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, seeing greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error."
The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, the death of Coriolanus and his enemy's final sorrow - all flowed on deep and fast, carrying with them the heart and mind of the reader.
"Now, have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?" asked Caroline, after her cousin had closed the book.


"Perhaps I have."
"Was he not faulty as well as great?"
Moore nodded.
"And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?"
"What do you think it was?"
"I ask again--


'Whether was it pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man? whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of? or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the war?'"
"Well, answer yourself, Sphinx."
"It was a spice of all; and you must not be proud to your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of soothing them; and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerely as if it were a command."
"That is the moral you tack to the play. What puts such notions into your head?"
"A wish for your good, a care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear, caused by many things which I have heard lately, that you will come to harm."
"Who tells you these things?"

"It was pride," said Caroline. "You must not be proud to your workpeople; you must soothe them; you must not be inflexible and austere."
"What puts such notions into your head?"
"A care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear that you will come to harm.


"I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low enemies, your resolution not 'to truckle to the mob,' as he says."
"And would you have me truckle to them?"
"No, not for the world. I never wish you to lower yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working-people under the general and insulting name of 'the mob,' and continually to think of them and treat them haughtily."
"You are a little democrat, Caroline. If your uncle knew, what would he say?"
"I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women's comprehension, and out of their line."
"And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?"

I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard and determined spirit, your scorn of low enemies, and your resolution not 'to truckle to the mob.' Yet I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working-people under the insulting name of 'the mob,' and to treat them haughtily."
"You are a little democrat, Caroline. If your uncle knew, what would he say?"
"I rarely talk to my uncle, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women's comprehension."
"And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?"


"As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you _are_ sometimes, can I venture to be affectionate in return?"
"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor Andr Chnier--'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"
"I think so."
"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; especially let us have no English _u_'s."

"I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, how can I venture to be affectionate in return?"
"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, by Chnier - 'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"
"I think so."
"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; let us have no English u's."


Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chnier. The last three stanzas she rehearsed well.
"Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin! Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin J'ai pass le premiers peine. Au banquet de la vie peine commenc, Un instant seulement mes lvres ont press La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.
"Je ne suis qu'au printemps--je veux voir la moisson; Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison, Je veux achever mon anne, Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneur du jardin Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin, Je veux achever ma journe!"


Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not shed on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment--animated, interested, touched--she might be called beautiful. Such a face was calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration, but some feeling more tender, genial, intimate--friendship, perhaps, affection, interest. When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.
"Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like any happy, docile child.

Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her noticing. Her eyes had an animating light this evening: at the present moment, she might be called beautiful. When she had finished, she turned to Moore.
"Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like a happy child.


"I really don't know."
"Why don't you know? Have you not listened?"
"Yes--and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?"
"When I meet with _real_ poetry, I cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine."
Mr. Moore now sat silent for several minutes. It struck nine o'clock. Sarah entered, and said that Mr. Helstone's servant was come for Miss Caroline.
"Then the evening is gone already," she observed, "and it will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here."

"I really don't know."
"Have you not listened?"
"Yes - and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?"
"When I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine."
It struck nine o'clock. Sarah entered, and said that Mr. Helstone's servant was come for Miss Caroline.
"Then the evening is gone already," Caroline observed, "and it will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here."


Hortense had been for some time nodding over her knitting; fallen into a doze now, she made no response to the remark.
"You would have no objection to come here oftener of an evening?" inquired Robert, as he took her folded mantle from the side-table, where it still lay, and carefully wrapped it round her.
"I like to come here; but I have no desire to be intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked; you must understand that."
"Oh! I understand thee, child. You sometimes lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina; but if I _were_ rich, you should live here always--at any rate, you should live with me wherever my habitation might be."
"That would be pleasant; and if you were poor--ever so poor--it would still be pleasant. Good-night, Robert."

Hortense had been for some time dozing over her knitting, and made no response.
"You would not mind coming here oftener of an evening?" inquired Robert, as he carefully wrapped her mantle round her.
"I like to come; but I have no desire to be intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked; you must understand that."
"Oh! I understand thee, child. You sometimes lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina; but if I were rich, you should live here always."
"That would be pleasant, even if you were poor. Good-night, Robert."


"I promised to walk with you up to the rectory."
"I know you did; but I thought you had forgotten, and I hardly knew how to remind you, though I wished to do it. But would you like to go? It is a cold night, and as Fanny is come, there is no necessity----"
"Here is your muff; don't wake Hortense--come."
The half mile to the rectory was soon traversed. They parted in the garden without kiss, scarcely with a pressure of hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously troubled. He had been singularly kind to her that day--not in phrase, compliment, profession, but in manner, in look, and in soft and friendly tones.
For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. As he stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in the watery moonlight all alone, the hushed, dark mill before him, the hill-environed hollow round, he exclaimed, abruptly,--

"I promised to walk with you up to the rectory."
"I know you did; but I thought you had forgotten. It is a cold night, and as Fanny is come, there is no need-"
"Here is your muff; don't wake Hortense. Come."
The half mile to the rectory was soon traversed. They parted in the garden without a kiss, scarcely with a pressure of hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously troubled. He had been singularly kind to her that day.
For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. As he stood leaning on his yard-gate, musing in the moonlight, he exclaimed abruptly:


"This won't do! There's weakness--there's downright ruin in all this. However," he added, dropping his voice, "the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well; I have had it before. It will be gone to-morrow."

"This won't do! There's weakness and downright ruin in all this. However," he added, dropping his voice, "the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well; I have had it before. It will be gone tomorrow."


Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personages whose acquaintance we have made in this narrative, and then you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.
Let us turn to the curates--to the much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly answers the invocation. He knows his own description when he hears it.

Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the people we have met, and then you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.
Let us turn to the curates - much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly answers.


No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating public has its crotchets; that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plain facts will not digest? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and burnt feathers. "Impossible!" would be pronounced here; "untrue!" would be responded there; "inartistic!" would be solemnly decided.

No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating public does not care for the unvarnished truth? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there would be wild cries of "Impossible!" "Untrue!"


Note well. Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie--they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish; whereas the product of your own imagination, the mere figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural--the little, spurious wretch gets all the comfits, the honest, lawful bantling all the cuffs. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed, and naughty, you must stand down.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm--the most splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire--Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.
There! I think the varnish has been put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr. Donne.

Note well. Whenever you present the actual truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie; whereas the product of your own imagination, the fiction, is adopted, petted, called sweetly natural. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the legitimate urchin, you must stand down.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm - the splendid Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having been just offered a comfortable living. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.
There! I think the varnish has been put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr. Donne.


This gentleman turned out admirably--far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like little woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest (as a pastor he, to his dying day, conscientiously refused to act). The outside of the cup and platter he burnished up with the best polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with the zeal of an upholsterer, the care of a cabinet-maker. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model in its way. If uniformity and taste in architecture had been the same thing as consistency and earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a Christian flock Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne: it was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for all his erections.

This gentleman turned out admirably - far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model of uniformity and taste. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for these.


In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of action quite unique. He begged of high and low--of the shoeless cottage brat and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide--to old Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royal dukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of the ministry then in office; and, what is more remarkable, he screwed something out of every one of these personages. It is on record that he got five pounds from the close-fisted old lady Queen Charlotte, and two guineas from the royal profligate her eldest son. When Mr. Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself in a complete suit of brazen mail. That you had given a hundred pounds yesterday was with him no reason why you should not give two hundred to-day. He would tell you so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good with the cash. He was useful in his day and generation.

He begged from high and low - the shoeless cottage brat and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide - to old Queen Charlotte, her sons and daughters, the Prince Regent, Lord Castlereagh, and every minister then in office; and, what is more remarkable, he got something out of every one of them. Even the Prince Regent donated him two guineas. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good. He was useful in his day.


Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, _with truth_, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit. He proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious as Peter was rampant, boisterous, and---- This last epithet I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools, both Sunday and day schools, flourished under his sway like green bay trees. Being human, of course he had his faults. These, however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faults--what many would call virtues. The circumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a week. The spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being interred with Christian rites--these things could make strange havoc in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental economy. Otherwise he was sane and rational, diligent and charitable.

Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader, because of your love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to inform you that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit. He proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious as Peter was rampant, boisterous, and- This last epithet I suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. Mr. Macarthey laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools flourished under his sway. His faults were proper, steady-going, clerical faults: an invitation to tea with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a week; the sight of a Quaker wearing his hat in church played havoc with his mental wellbeing. Otherwise he was rational and diligent.


I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous and exciting--a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon, the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but _I_ should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectly exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for the good reason that he was never caught--the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going to rise and do valiant things; but since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, and sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver once before alluded to, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.

The justice-loving public will have remarked that I have been remiss in pursuing, catching, and bringing to punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon and the dock. You might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I was happy to find that facts exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, because he was never caught. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going do valiant things; but since Moore did not urge them on, they prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.


* * * * *
The winter is over and gone; spring has followed with beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer--in mid-June--the June of 1812.

*
The winter is over and gone; spring has followed, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer - the June of 1812.


It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant adolescence; the Titan boy uproots mountains in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour Russian deserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on.

It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle, with his army behind him, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow, where the Cossack awaits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on.


He puts his trust in a snow-cloud; the wilderness, the wind, and the hail-storm are his refuge; his allies are the elements--air, fire, water. And what are these? Three terrible archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. They stand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they uplift vials, brimming with the wrath of God. Their time is the day of vengeance; their signal, the word of the Lord of hosts, "thundering with the voice of His excellency."
"Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?
"Go your ways. Pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."


It is done. The earth is scorched with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man;" the islands flee away; the mountains are not found.
In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain. They made him generalissimo, for their own salvation's sake. In this year he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; in this year he won Salamanca.

The earth is scorched with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man."
In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain. He took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; he won Salamanca.


Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight _rsum_ of warlike facts, but it is of no consequence. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I rather think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have taunted him with his age and the loss of his physical vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men like you have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demigod. Scoff at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.

Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight rsum of warlike facts. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have taunted him with his age and loss of vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Scoff at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.


But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress, and let out our venom quietly. We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. You know very well--such of you as are old enough to remember--you made Yorkshire and Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant to this day. The Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and all went home in such a plight as their wives would never wish to witness more. Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horse roused amongst his reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled--all, like wise men, at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to rush into the bowels of speculation, and to delve new difficulties, in whose depths they might lose themselves at some future day. Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages rose; the good time seemed come.

But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress. We arrive now at a triumph. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. Yorkshire and Lancashire shook with your shouts on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; the Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and all went home in such a plight as their wives would never wish to witness more.
Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in the twinkling of an eye. Warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages rose; the good time seemed come.


These prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant--to some they were even true. At that epoch, in that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
* * * * *
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants tastes a festal feeling; the sound of public bells rouses the most secluded abode, as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations for a great event, the last appeal in these matters being reserved for her unimpeachable taste. She decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion--that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had presaged difficulties, and he had found them--in fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, at first coaxing him with soft pretences of procrastination, and in the end rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but there she was at last, fettered to a fixed day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.

These prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant. In that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest and most secluded of its inhabitants feels festive. So Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, to superintend certain preparations for a great event. She decided on the wreath, the veil, and the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion - Shirley, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had foreseen difficulties, and he had found them. In fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but at last she was fettered to a fixed day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.


Thus vanquished and restricted, she pined, like any other chained denizen of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her; his society only could make amends for the lost privilege of liberty. In his absence she sat or wandered alone, spoke little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her nuptials; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he became so nominally--the least presumptuous, the kindest master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated without a word or a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when applied to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride so thoroughly absolved from the subaltern part, so inevitably compelled to assume a paramount character.

Thus vanquished and chained, she pined. Her captor alone could cheer her; in his absence she sat or wandered alone, spoke little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her nuptials; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he actually became so - the least presumptuous master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated without a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when applied to for orders.


In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials, but Fortune had destined her another part.

In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards showed another motive. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should be bridesmaid, but Fortune had destined her another part.


She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone--a monkish relic--once, perhaps, the base of a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops. She gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a solitary thorn at the head of a solitary lane far off. She surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright.

She came home in time to water her plants. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. She gazed over the wall, the watering pot still in one hand, surveying the dusky moors, where bonfires were kindling. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright.


Above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point--the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening--far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near; she received the touch unstartled.
"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!"
The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot and stepped down from the pedestal.

Above them, in the sky, twinkled a silver point - Venus.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near, and was not startled.
"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre is!"
The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot.


"I have been sitting with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "I have had a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?"

"I have been sitting talking with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "Where, meantime, have you been?"


"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her."

"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her."


"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if any one can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"
"For the repeal of your terrible law--the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?"

"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if anyone can. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but it ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"
"For the repeal of your terrible law - the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?"


"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you."
"To leave me? To leave _me_?"
Her little fingers fastened on his arm; she spoke and looked affrighted.
"Not now--not now. Examine my face--yes, look at me well. Is the despair of parting legible thereon?"

"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage; along with clothes, seeds and tools, to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you."
"To leave me?"
Her fingers fastened on his arm; she looked frightened.
"Not now. Look at me. Do you see the despair of parting?"


She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.
"Will the repeal do you good--_much_ good, _immediate_ good?" she inquired.
"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business; now I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissions given me for much more. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build."
Caroline devoured his words; she held his hand in hers; she drew a long breath.
"You are saved? Your heavy difficulties are lifted?"

She looked into a bright face, beaming down on her with hope, fondness and delight.
"Will the repeal do you much good?" she inquired.
"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; I shall not give up business; I shall not leave England. Now I shall be no longer poor; I can pay my debts; all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build."
Caroline held his hand, and drew a long breath. "You are saved? Your difficulties are lifted?"


"They are lifted. I breathe. I can act."
"At last! Oh, Providence is kind! Thank Him, Robert."
"I do thank Providence."
"And I also, for your sake!" She looked up devoutly.

"They are lifted. I can act."
"At last! Oh, Providence is kind! Thank Him, Robert."
"I do thank Providence.