It is very dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I had found that he did not always tell the truth, and made promises without meaning to keep them; and that raised my suspicion that my mother and brother were still alive though he had told me they were dead. For in going over the past again as I got older and knew more, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us back again after a very little while; and my father taking me on his knee and telling me that my mother and brother were both dead seemed to me now but a bit of acting, to set my mind at rest. The cruelty of that falsehood sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it. I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that it was not Blackfriars Bridge and the Coburg, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, because, he said, it was a name of his forefathers in Poland. I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I thought there was no hope for me. Our life in America did not last much longer. My father suddenly told me we were to pack up and go to Hamburg, and I was rather glad. I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well--some German plays almost all by heart. My father spoke it better than he spoke English.

It is dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I found that he did not always tell the truth or keep his promises; and I suspected that my mother and brother were still alive. For in going over the past, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us again after a very little while; and my father had told me a falsehood. The cruelty of it sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it.
"I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, which was a name of his forefathers in Poland. I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I lost hope. Then my father suddenly told me we were to go to Hamburg, and I was glad. I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well.


I was thirteen then, and I seemed to myself quite old--I knew so much, and yet so little. I think other children cannot feel as I did. I had often wished that I had been drowned when I was going away from my mother. But I set myself to obey and suffer: what else could I do? One day when we were on our voyage, a new thought came into my mind. I was not very ill that time, and I kept on deck a good deal. My father acted and sang and joked to amuse people on board, and I used often to hear remarks about him. One day, when I was looking at the sea and nobody took notice of me, I overheard a gentleman say, 'Oh, he is one of those clever Jews--a rascal, I shouldn't wonder. There's no race like them for cunning in the men and beauty in the women. I wonder what market he means that daughter for.'

I was thirteen then, and I felt old - I knew so much, and yet so little. But I set myself to obey and suffer: what else could I do?
"One day on our voyage, a new thought came to me. My father sang and joked to amuse people on board, and I overheard a gentleman say, 'Oh, he is one of those clever Jews - a rascal, I shouldn't wonder. I wonder what market he means that daughter for.'


When I heard this it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always to the end the world would think slightly of me and that I must bear it, for I should be judged by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages. For if many of our race were wicked and made merry in their wickedness--what was that but part of the affliction borne by the just among them, who were despised for the sins of their brethren?--But you have not rejected me."
Mirah had changed her tone in this last sentence, having suddenly reflected that at this moment she had reason not for complaint but for gratitude.
"And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poor child," said Mrs. Meyrick, who had now given up all attempt at going on with her work, and sat listening with folded hands and a face hardly less eager than Mab's would have been. "Go on, go on: tell me all."

Then it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always the world would think little of me and judge me by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages. But you have not rejected me." Mirah said this last sentence in a different tone of voice.
"And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poor child," said Mrs. Meyrick. "Go on: tell me all."


"After that we lived in different towns--Hamburg and Vienna, the longest. I began to study singing again: and my father always got money about the theatres. I think he brought a good deal of money from America, I never knew why we left. For some time he was in great spirits about my singing, and he made me rehearse parts and act continually. He looked forward to my coming out in the opera. But by-and-by it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough--it did not fulfill its promise. My master at Vienna said, 'Don't strain it further: it will never do for the public:--it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.' My father was bitterly disappointed: we were not so well off at that time. I think I have not quite told you what I felt about my father. I knew he was fond of me and meant to indulge me, and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please me and give me happiness.

"After that we lived in Hamburg and Vienna. I began to study singing again: and my father made money in theatres. He made me rehearse continually, and looked forward to my coming out in the opera. But it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough. My master at Vienna said, 'Don't strain it further: it will never do for the public:- it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.' My father was bitterly disappointed. I knew he was fond of me, and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please me and give me happiness.


It was his nature to take everything lightly; and I soon left off asking him any questions about things that I cared for much, because he always turned them off with a joke. He would even ridicule our own people; and once when he had been imitating their movements and their tones in praying, only to make others laugh, I could not restrain myself--for I always had an anger in my heart about my mother--and when we were alone, I said, 'Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, that they might mock you?' But he only shrugged his shoulders and laughed and pinched my chin, and said, 'You couldn't do it, my dear." It was this way of turning off everything, that made a great wall between me and my father, and whatever I felt most I took the most care to hide from him. For there were some things--when they were laughed at I could not bear it: the world seemed like a hell to me. Is this world and all the life upon it only like a farce or a vaudeville, where you find no great meanings? Why then are there tragedies and grand operas, where men do difficult things and choose to suffer? I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke. And I saw that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, and parts in grand operas, was only wishing for what would fetch the greatest price. That hemmed in my gratitude for his affectionateness, and the tenderest feeling I had toward him was pity.

It was his nature to take everything lightly; and I soon stopped asking him questions about things that I cared for, because he always turned them off with a joke. He would even ridicule our own people, imitating them to make others laugh.
"Once, I said, 'Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, so that they might mock you?' But he only shrugged and laughed, and said, 'You couldn't do it, my dear.' This mockery made a great wall between me and my father. Is this world like a farce, with no great meanings? Why then are there tragedies and grand operas? I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke. And I saw that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, was only to fetch the greatest price.


Yes, I did sometimes pity him. He had aged and changed. Now he was no longer so lively. I thought he seemed worse--less good to others than to me. Every now and then in the latter years his gaiety went away suddenly, and he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or he would come in and fling himself down and sob, just as I have done myself when I have been in trouble. If I put my hand on his knee and say, 'What is the matter, father?' he would make no answer, but would draw my arm round his neck and put his arm round me and go on crying. There never came any confidence between us; but oh, I was sorry for him. At those moments I knew he must feel his life bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed. Those moments were what most bound me to him; and I used to think how much my mother once loved him, else she would not have married him.

"I did sometimes pity him. He had aged; he was no longer so lively. I thought he seemed less good to others than to me. Sometimes he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or fling himself down and sob. If I asked him what was the matter, he would not answer, but would put his arm round me and go on crying. Oh, I was sorry for him then. I knew he must feel his life bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed. Those moments bound me to him; and I used to think how much my mother must have once loved him.


"But soon there came the dreadful time. We had been at Pesth and we came back to Vienna. In spite of what my master Leo had said, my father got me an engagement, not at the opera, but to take singing parts at a suburb theatre in Vienna. He had nothing to do with the theatre then; I did not understand what he did, but I think he was continually at a gambling house, though he was careful always about taking me to the theatre. I was very miserable. The plays I acted in were detestable to me. Men came about us and wanted to talk to me: women and men seemed to look at me with a sneering smile; it was no better than a fiery furnace. Perhaps I make it worse than it was--you don't know that life: but the glare and the faces, and my having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then see people who came to stare at me behind the scenes--it was all so much worse than when I was a little girl. I went through with it; I did it; I had set my mind to obey my father and work, for I saw nothing better that I could do. But I felt that my voice was getting weaker, and I knew that my acting was not good except when it was not really acting, but the part was one that I could be myself in, and some feeling within me carried me along.

"But soon there came the dreadful time. My father got me singing parts at a theatre in Vienna. I think he spent his own time at a gambling house. I was very miserable. The plays I acted in were detestable to me: it was like a fiery furnace. The glare and the faces, and having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then to see people who came to stare at me behind the scenes - it was all much worse than when I was little. I went through with it; I had set my mind to obey my father and work. But I felt that my voice was getting weaker.


"Then, in the midst of all this, the news came to me one morning that my father had been taken to prison, and he had sent for me. He did not tell me the reason why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address he gave me, to see a Count who would be able to get him released. The address was to some public rooms where I was to ask for the Count, and beg him to come to my father. I found him, and recognized him as a gentleman whom I had seen the other night for the first time behind the scenes. That agitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing my hand--I thought it was in mockery. But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my father, who came home again that very evening, bringing the Count with him. I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried me with his attentions, his eyes were always on me: I felt sure that whatever else there might be in his mind toward me, below it all there was scorn for the Jewess and the actress. And when he came to me the next day in the theatre and would put my shawl around me, a terror took hold of me; I saw that my father wanted me to look pleased. The Count was neither very young nor very old; his hair and eyes were pale; he was tall and walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except when he looked at me. He smiled at me, and his smile went through me with horror: I could not tell why he was so much worse to me than other men.

"Then, in the midst of all this, news came to me that my father had been taken to prison, and had sent for me. He did not tell me why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address he gave me, to see a Count who would get him released. The address was to some public rooms; I found the Count, and recognized him as a gentleman whom I had seen the other night for the first time behind the scenes. That agitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing my hand. But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my father, who came home that very evening, bringing the Count.
"I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried me with his attentions. His eyes were always on me: when he came to the theatre the next day and wanted to put my shawl around me, a terror took hold of me. The Count walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except when he looked at me. He smiled at me, and his smile went through me with horror: I could not tell why.


Some feelings are like our hearing: they come as sounds do, before we know their reason. My father talked to me about him when we were alone, and praised him--said what a good friend he had been. I said nothing, because I supposed he had got my father out of prison. When the Count came again, my father left the room. He asked me if I liked being on the stage. I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father. He always spoke French, and called me _petite ange_ and such things, which I felt insulting. I knew he meant to make love to me, and I had it firmly in my mind that a nobleman and one who was not a Jew could have no love for me that was not half contempt. But then he told me that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything. It was difficult to me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, 'I would rather stay on the stage forever,' and I left him there.

My father praised him to me, saying what a good friend he had been, and when the Count came again, my father left the room. The Count asked me if I liked being on stage. I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father. Then he told me that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything. It was difficult for me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, 'I would rather stay on the stage forever.'


Hurrying out of the room I saw my father sauntering in the passage. My heart was crushed. I went past him and locked myself up. It had sunk into me that my father was in a conspiracy with that man against me. But the next day he persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken everything, and he would explain: if I did not come out and act and fulfill my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve. So I went on acting, and for a week or more the Count never came near me. My father changed our lodgings, and kept at home except when he went to the theatre with me. He began one day to speak discouragingly of my acting, and say, I could never go on singing in public--I should lose my voice--I ought to think of my future, and not put my nonsensical feelings between me and my fortune. He said, 'What will you do? You will be brought down to sing and beg at people's doors.

I hurried out of the room and saw my father sauntering in the passage. My heart was crushed. I went past him and locked myself up.
"Next day my father persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken everything: if I did not come out and act and fulfil my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve. So I went on acting, and for a week the Count never came near me. My father changed our lodgings, and stayed at home. He began one day to say, I could never go on singing in public - I should lose my voice - I ought to think of my future, and not put nonsensical feelings between me and my fortune. He said, '


You have had a splendid offer and ought to accept it.' I could not speak: a horror took possession of me when I thought of my mother and of him. I felt for the first time that I should not do wrong to leave him. But the next day he told me that he had put an end to my engagement at the theatre, and that we were to go to Prague. I was getting suspicious of everything, and my will was hardening to act against him. It took us two days to pack and get ready; and I had it in my mind that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and try if it were possible to find my mother. I had a little money, and I sold some things to get more. I packed a few clothes in a little bag that I could carry with me, and I kept my mind on the watch. My father's silence--his letting drop that subject of the Count's offer--made me feel sure that there was a plan against me. I felt as if it had been a plan to take me to a madhouse.

You have had a splendid offer and ought to accept it.' I could not speak: a horror took possession of me. I felt for the first time that I should not do wrong to leave him.
"But the next day he told me that we were to go to Prague. It took us two days to get ready; and I thought that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and try to find my mother. I had a little money, and I sold some things to get more. I packed a few clothes in a little bag, and I kept on the watch. My father's silence about the Count's offer made me feel sure that there was a plan against me.


I once saw a picture of a madhouse, that I could never forget; it seemed to me very much like some of the life I had seen--the people strutting, quarreling, leering--the faces with cunning and malice in them. It was my will to keep myself from wickedness; and I prayed for help. I had seen what despised women were: and my heart turned against my father, for I saw always behind him that man who made me shudder. You will think I had not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not, outside my own feeling; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and all that might be stood out clear and sharp. If I slept, it was only to see the same sort of things, and I could hardly sleep at all. Through our journey I was everywhere on the watch. I don't know why, but it came before me like a real event, that my father would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Count where I could not get away from him. I thought God was warning me: my mother's voice was in my soul. It was dark when we reached Prague, and though the strange bunches of lamps were lit it was difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along the street. My father chose to sit outside--he was always smoking now--and I watched everything in spite of the darkness.

I prayed for help. I had seen what despised women were: and my heart turned against my father, for I saw always behind him that man who made me shudder.
"You will think I had not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and that all was clear and sharp. I could hardly sleep. Throughout our journey I was always on the watch. I feared that my father would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Count.
"It was dark when we reached Prague, and difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along the street. I watched everything in spite of the darkness


I do believe I could see better then than I ever did before: the strange clearness within seemed to have got outside me. It was not my habit to notice faces and figures much in the street; but this night I saw every one; and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight only of a back that was passing in--the light of the great bunch of lamps a good way off fell on it. I knew it--before the face was turned, as it fell into shadow, I knew who it was. Help came to me. I feel sure help came. I did not sleep that night. I put on my plainest things--the cloak and hat I have worn ever since; and I sat watching for the light and the sound of the doors being unbarred. Some one rose early--at four o'clock, to go to the railway. That gave me courage. I slipped out, with my little bag under my cloak, and none noticed me.

; and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight of a back that was passing. I knew it - before the face was turned, I knew who it was. Help came to me. I did not sleep that night. I put on my plainest things, and I sat watching for the light and the sound of the doors being unbarred. Some one rose at four o'clock, to go to the railway. That gave me courage. I slipped out, with my little bag under my cloak, and none noticed me.


I had been a long while attending to the railway guide that I might learn the way to England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden. Then I cried for joy. I did not know whether my money would last out, but I trusted. I could sell the things in my bag, and the little rings in my ears, and I could live on bread only. My only terror was lest my father should follow me. But I never paused. I came on, and on, and on, only eating bread now and then. When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could sell; but here a strange thing happened. Putting my hand into the pocket of my cloak, I found a half-napoleon. Wondering and wondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young workman sitting against me.

I had been reading the railway guide so that I might learn the way to England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden. Then I cried for joy. I did not know whether my money would last out, but I trusted. I could sell the things in my bag, and the little rings in my ears, and I could live on bread only. My only terror was lest my father should follow me. But I never paused. I came on, and on, and on, only eating bread now and then.
"When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could; but here a strange thing happened. Putting my hand into the pocket of my cloak, I found a half-napoleon. Wondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young workman sitting next to me.


I was frightened at every one, and did not like to be spoken to. At first he tried to talk, but when he saw that I did not like it, he left off. It was a long journey; I ate nothing but a bit of bread, and he once offered me some of the food he brought in, but I refused it. I do believe it was he who put that bit of gold in my pocket. Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I did walk a good deal of the way from Dover to London. I knew I should look like a miserable beggar-girl. I wanted not to look very miserable, because if I found my mother it would grieve her to see me so. But oh, how vain my hope was that she would be there to see me come! As soon as I set foot in London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were a long way off, and I went wrong. At last I got to Blackfriars Bridge and asked for Colman Street.

I was frightened at everyone, and did not like to be spoken to. At first he tried to talk, but when he saw I did not like it, he left off. It was a long journey; I ate nothing but a bit of bread, and he offered me some of his food, but I refused it. I believe he put that bit of gold in my pocket. Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I did walk a good deal of the way from Dover to London. I knew I should look like a miserable beggar-girl, and I felt it would grieve my mother to see me so.
"As soon as I reached London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were a long way off, and I went wrong. At last I got to Blackfriars Bridge and asked for Colman Street.


People shook their heads. None knew it. I saw it in my mind--our doorsteps, and the white tiles hung in the windows, and the large brick building opposite with wide doors. But there was nothing like it. At last when I asked a tradesman where the Coburg Theatre and Colman Street were, he said, 'Oh, my little woman, that's all done away with. The old streets have been pulled down; everything is new.' I turned away and felt as if death had laid a hand on me. He said: 'Stop, stop! young woman; what is it you're wanting with Colman Street, eh?' meaning well, perhaps.

People shook their heads. None knew it. A tradesman said, 'Oh, that's done away with. The old streets have been pulled down; everything is new.' I felt as if death had laid a hand on me.


But his tone was what I could not bear; and how could I tell him what I wanted? I felt blinded and bewildered with a sudden shock. I suddenly felt that I was very weak and weary, and yet where could I go? for I looked so poor and dusty, and had nothing with me--I looked like a street-beggar. And I was afraid of all places where I could enter. I lost my trust. I thought I was forsaken. It seemed that I had been in a fever of hope--delirious--all the way from Prague: I thought that I was helped, and I did nothing but strain my mind forward and think of finding my mother; and now--there I stood in a strange world. All who saw me would think ill of me, and I must herd with beggars. I stood on the bridge and looked along the river.

I felt blinded, weak and weary, and yet where could I go? I thought I was forsaken. It seemed that I had been in a fever of hope - delirious - all the way from Prague: and now I stood in a strange world. I crossed the bridge and looked along the river.


People were going on to a steamboat. Many of them seemed poor, and I felt as if it would be a refuge to get away from the streets; perhaps the boat would take me where I could soon get into a solitude. I had still some pence left, and I bought a loaf when I went on the boat. I wanted to have a little time and strength to think of life and death. How could I live? And now again it seemed that if ever I were to find my mother again, death was the way to her. I ate, that I might have strength to think. The boat set me down at a place along the river--I don't know where--and it was late in the evening. I found some large trees apart from the road, and I sat down under them that I might rest through the night. Sleep must have soon come to me, and when I awoke it was morning.

"People were going on to a steamboat; perhaps that would take me where I could soon find solitude. I bought a loaf when I went on the boat. I wanted to have a little time and strength to think of life and death. How could I live? It seemed that death was the way to find my mother. The boat set me down at a place along the river. I sat down under some trees that I might rest through the night. When I awoke


The birds were singing, and the dew was white about me, I felt chill and oh, so lonely! I got up and walked and followed the river a long way and then turned back again. There was no reason why I should go anywhere. The world about me seemed like a vision that was hurrying by while I stood still with my pain. My thoughts were stronger than I was; they rushed in and forced me to see all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost child taken up and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I could do for them. It seemed all a weary wandering and heart-loneliness--as if I had been forced to go to merrymakings without the expectation of joy. And now it was worse. I was lost again, and I dreaded lest any stranger should notice me and speak to me. I had a terror of the world. None knew me; all would mistake me.

 the birds were singing, and the dew was white about me. I felt chill and oh, so lonely!
"I got up and walked along the river. There was no reason why I should go anywhere. The world about me seemed like a vision that was hurrying by while I stood still with my pain. I saw all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost child and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I could do for them. And now I was lost again, and I dreaded lest any stranger should notice me. I had a terror of the world.


I had seen so many in my life who made themselves glad with scorning, and laughed at another's shame. What could I do? This life seemed to be closing in upon me with a wall of fire--everywhere there was scorching that made me shrink. The high sunlight made me shrink. And I began to think that my despair was the voice of God telling me to die. But it would take me long to die of hunger. Then I thought of my people, how they had been driven from land to land and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of misery in their wandering--was I the first? And in the wars and troubles when Christians were cruelest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children and afterward themselves: it was to save them from being false apostates. That seemed to make it right for me to put an end to my life; for calamity had closed me in too, and I saw no pathway but to evil. But my mind got into war with itself, for there were contrary things in it.

What could I do? This life seemed to be closing in upon me with a scorching wall of fire that made me shrink.
"I began to think that my despair was the voice of God telling me to die. Then I thought of my people, how they had been driven from land to land and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of misery in their wandering; and in the wars when Christians were cruellest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children and afterward themselves. That seemed to make it right for me to put an end to my life; but


I knew that some had held it wrong to hasten their own death, though they were in the midst of flames; and while I had some strength left it was a longing to bear if I ought to bear--else where was the good of all my life? It had not been happy since the first years: when the light came every morning I used to think, 'I will bear it.' But always before I had some hope; now it was gone. With these thoughts I wandered and wandered, inwardly crying to the Most High, from whom I should not flee in death more than in life--though I had no strong faith that He cared for me. The strength seemed departing from my soul; deep below all my cries was the feeling that I was alone and forsaken. The more I thought the wearier I got, till it seemed I was not thinking at all, but only the sky and the river and the Eternal God were in my soul. And what was it whether I died or lived? If I lay down to die in the river, was it more than lying down to sleep?--for there too I committed my soul--I gave myself up. I could not bear memories any more; I could only feel what was present in me--it was all one longing to cease from my weary life, which seemed only a pain outside the great peace that I might enter into. That was how it was.

 I knew that some held it wrong to hasten their own death, and while I had some strength left I ought to bear it - else where was the good of all my life? It had not been happy since the first years: every morning I used to think, 'I will bear it.' But always before I had some hope; now it was gone.
"With these thoughts I wandered, inwardly crying to the Most High, though I had no strong faith that He cared for me. The strength seemed departing from my soul. The more I thought the wearier I got, till it seemed I was not thinking at all, but only the sky and the river and the Eternal God were in my soul. And what was it whether I died or lived? If I lay down to die in the river, was it more than lying down to sleep? I gave myself up to it. I could not bear memories any more; I could only feel a longing to cease from my weary life, and enter the great peace. That was how it was.


When the evening came and the sun was gone, it seemed as if that was all I had to wait for. And a new strength came into me to will what I would do. You know what I did. I was going to die. You know what happened--did he not tell you? Faith came to me again; I was not forsaken. He told you how he found me?"
Mrs. Meyrick gave no audible answer, but pressed her lips against Mirah's forehead.
* * * * *
"She's just a pearl; the mud has only washed her," was the fervid little woman's closing commentary when, _tete--tete_ with Deronda in the back parlor that evening, she had conveyed Mirah's story to him with much vividness.

When the evening came and the sun was gone, a new strength came into me to decide what I would do. You know what I did. You know what happened - did he not tell you? Faith came to me again; I was not forsaken. He told you how he found me?"
Mrs. Meyrick gave no audible answer, but pressed her lips against Mirah's forehead.
* * * * *
"She's just a pearl; the mud has only washed her," was her closing comment to Deronda that evening, after she had related Mirah's story with much vividness.


"What is your feeling about a search for this mother?" said Deronda. "Have you no fears? I have, I confess."
"Oh, I believe the mother's good," said Mrs. Meyrick, with rapid decisiveness; "or _was_ good. She may be dead--that's my fear. A good woman, you may depend: you may know it by the scoundrel the father is. Where did the child get her goodness from? Wheaten flour has to be accounted for."

"What is your feeling about a search for this mother?" said Deronda. "Have you no fears? I have, I confess."
"Oh, I believe the mother's good," said Mrs. Meyrick decisively; "or was good. She may be dead - that's my fear. You may know she was good by the scoundrel the father is. Where did the child get her goodness from?"


Deronda was rather disappointed at this answer; he had wanted a confirmation of his own judgment, and he began to put in demurrers. The argument about the mother would not apply to the brother; and Mrs. Meyrick admitted that the brother might be an ugly likeness of the father. Then, as to advertising, if the name was Cohen, you might as well advertise for two undescribed terriers; and here Mrs. Meyrick helped him, for the idea of an advertisement, already mentioned to Mirah, had roused the poor child's terror; she was convinced that her father would see it--he saw everything in the papers. Certainly there were safer means than advertising; men might be set to work whose business it was to find missing persons; but Deronda wished Mrs. Meyrick to feel with him that it would be wiser to wait, before seeking a dubious--perhaps a deplorable result; especially as he was engaged to go abroad the next week for a couple of months. If a search were made, he would like to be at hand, so that Mrs. Meyrick might not be unaided in meeting any consequences--supposing that she would generously continue to watch over Mirah.
"We should be very jealous of any one who took the task from us," said Mrs. Meyrick. "She will stay under my roof; there is Hans's old room for her."
"Will she be content to wait?" said Deronda, anxiously.

Deronda was disappointed at this answer, for he had wanted a confirmation of his own judgment; but Mrs. Meyrick admitted that the brother might be an ugly likeness of the father. Then, as to advertising, if the name was Cohen, you might as well advertise for two undescribed terriers. The idea of an advertisement, already mentioned to Mirah, had roused the poor child's terror; she was convinced that her father would see it. Men might be set to work whose business it was to find missing persons; but Deronda wished to wait before seeking a dubious result; especially as he was soon to go abroad for a couple of months. If a search were made, he would like to be at hand, to help Mrs. Meyrick in meeting any consequences - supposing that she would generously continue to watch over Mirah.
"Of course she will stay here," said Mrs. Meyrick; "there is Hans's old room for her."
"Will she be content to wait?"


"No trouble there. It is not her nature to run into planning and devising: only to submit. See how she submitted to that father! It was a wonder to herself how she found the will and contrivance to run away from him. About finding her mother, her only notion now is to trust; since you were sent to save her and we are good to her, she trusts that her mother will be found in the same unsought way. And when she is talking I catch her feeling like a child."
Mrs. Meyrick hoped that the sum Deronda put into her hands as a provision for Mirah's wants was more than would be needed; after a little while Mirah would perhaps like to occupy herself as the other girls did, and make herself independent. Deronda pleaded that she must need a long rest. "Oh, yes; we will hurry nothing," said Mrs. Meyrick.

"Yes; it is her nature to submit. See how she submitted to that father! It was a wonder to herself how she found the will to run away from him. As to finding her mother, since you were sent to save her, she trusts that her mother will be found in the same unsought way."
Deronda gave her some money for Mirah's wants; but she expressed her hope that after a little while Mirah would perhaps like to work as the other girls did, and make herself independent. "We will hurry nothing," she said.


"Rely upon it, she shall be taken tender care of. If you like to give me your address abroad, I will write to let you know how we get on. It is not fair that we should have all the pleasure of her salvation to ourselves. And besides, I want to make believe that I am doing something for you as well as for Mirah."
"That is no make-believe. What should I have done without you last night? Everything would have gone wrong. I shall tell Hans that the best of having him for a friend is, knowing his mother."
After that they joined the girls in the other room, where Mirah was seated placidly, while the others were telling her what they knew about Mr. Deronda--his goodness to Hans, and all the virtues that Hans had reported of him.

"We will take tender care of her. I will write to let you know how we get on."
They joined the girls in the other room, where Mirah was seated placidly while the others were telling her about Mr. Deronda's goodness to Hans.


"Kate burns a pastille before his portrait every day," said Mab. "And I carry his signature in a little black-silk bag round my neck to keep off the cramp. And Amy says the multiplication-table in his name. We must all do something extra in honor of him, now he has brought you to us."
"I suppose he is too great a person to want anything," said Mirah, smiling at Mab, and appealing to the graver Amy. "He is perhaps very high in the world?"
"He is very much above us in rank," said Amy. "He is related to grand people. I dare say he leans on some of the satin cushions we prick our fingers over."
"I am glad he is of high rank," said Mirah, with her usual quietness.

"Amy says the multiplication-table in his name," said Mab. "We must all do something in his honour, now he has brought you to us."
"He is perhaps very high in the world?" asked Mirah.
"He is very much above us in rank," said Amy.
"I am glad," said Mirah quietly,


"Now, why are you glad of that?" said Amy, rather suspicious of this sentiment, and on the watch for Jewish peculiarities which had not appeared.
"Because I have always disliked men of high rank before."
"Oh, Mr. Deronda is not so very high," said Kate, "He need not hinder us from thinking ill of the whole peerage and baronetage if we like."
When he entered, Mirah rose with the same look of grateful reverence that she had lifted to him the evening before: impossible to see a creature freer at once from embarrassment and boldness. Her theatrical training had left no recognizable trace; probably her manners had not much changed since she played the forsaken child at nine years of age; and she had grown up in her simplicity and truthfulness like a little flower-seed that absorbs the chance confusion of its surrounding into its own definite mould of beauty. Deronda felt that he was making acquaintance with something quite new to him in the form of womanhood. For Mirah was not childlike from ignorance: her experience of evil and trouble was deeper and stranger than his own. He felt inclined to watch her and listen to her as if she had come from a far off shore inhabited by a race different from our own.

 "because I have always disliked men of high rank before."
"Oh, Mr. Deronda is not so very high," said Kate. "He need not hinder us from thinking ill of the whole peerage if we like."
When he entered, Mirah rose with a look of grateful reverence, free from either embarrassment or boldness. Her theatrical training had left no trace; she had grown up in her simplicity and truthfulness like a flower. Deronda felt that she was a form of womanhood quite new to him. For Mirah was not childlike from ignorance: her experience of trouble was deeper and stranger than his own.


But for that very reason he made his visit brief with his usual activity of imagination as to how his conduct might affect others, he shrank from what might seem like curiosity or the assumption of a right to know as much as he pleased of one to whom he had done a service. For example, he would have liked to hear her sing, but he would have felt the expression of such a wish to be rudeness in him--since she could not refuse, and he would all the while have a sense that she was being treated like one whose accomplishments were to be ready on demand. And whatever reverence could be shown to woman, he was bent on showing to this girl. Why? He gave himself several good reasons; but whatever one does with a strong unhesitating outflow of will has a store of motive that it would be hard to put into words. Some deeds seem little more than interjections which give vent to the long passion of a life.
So Deronda soon took his farewell for the two months during which he expected to be absent from London, and in a few days he was on his way with Sir Hugo and Lady Mallinger to Leubronn.

But he made his visit brief, shrinking from what might seem like curiosity or the assumption of a right to know as much as he pleased about her. He would have liked to hear her sing, but felt it would be rude to ask, since she could not refuse. He wished to show her due reverence.
So Deronda soon took his farewell, and in a few days he was on his way with Sir Hugo and Lady Mallinger to Leubronn.


He had fulfilled his intention of telling them about Mirah. The baronet was decidedly of opinion that the search for the mother and brother had better be let alone. Lady Mallinger was much interested in the poor girl, observing that there was a society for the conversion of the Jews, and that it was to be hoped Mirah would embrace Christianity; but perceiving that Sir Hugo looked at her with amusement, she concluded that she had said something foolish. Lady Mallinger felt apologetically about herself as a woman who had produced nothing but daughters in a case where sons were required, and hence regarded the apparent contradictions of the world as probably due to the weakness of her own understanding. But when she was much puzzled, it was her habit to say to herself, "I will ask Daniel." Deronda was altogether a convenience in the family; and Sir Hugo too, after intending to do the best for him, had begun to feel that the pleasantest result would be to have this substitute for a son always ready at his elbow.
This was the history of Deronda, so far as he knew it, up to the time of that visit to Leubronn in which he saw Gwendolen Harleth at the gaming-table.

He had told them about Mirah; and the baronet felt decidedly that the search for the mother and brother had better be let alone.
This was the history of Deronda up to that visit to Leubronn in which he saw Gwendolen Harleth at the gaming-table.


A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.
"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us."
Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.

Twenty minutes passed, and Fanny began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen anxiously for their steps and voices. At length she heard voices approaching; but it was not those she wanted. Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford were before her.
"My dear Fanny, how comes this?"
She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny," cried Maria, "how ill you have been used! You had better have stayed with us."
Seating herself with a gentleman on each side, Maria resumed their conversation, discussing the possible improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas, and whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, who scarcely risked an original thought of his own.


After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.
"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.
"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?"

After some minutes, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and plans might be more comprehensive. It was the best way of proceeding, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them a view of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll; but the gate was locked.
Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near to bringing the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.
When he was gone, Maria addressed Mr Crawford. "Sincerely, do not you find the place worse than you expected?"


"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me."
After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will."
"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world."

"No, indeed. I find it grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that I shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me."
After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will."
"I am afraid I am not so much the man of the world as might be good for me. My feelings are not quite so light as is the case with men of the world."


This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way."
"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."

There was a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way."
"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."


"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"
"More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."
"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now."
"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you."

"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"
"More easily amused," he replied, smiling. "I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."
"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now."
"You have, undoubtedly. Your prospects, however, are fair. You have a very smiling scene before you."


"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!"
"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited."

"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!"
"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority, or I think you might easily pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and did not think it prohibited."


"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of sight."
"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll."
Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go."
Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken, and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye."

"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment; we shall not be out of sight."
"Or if we are, Miss Price will tell him that he will find us on that knoll."
Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will tear your gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go."
Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken, and, smiling with the good-humour of success, she said, "Thank you, dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye."


Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.
She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."
Fanny explained.

Fanny was again left alone, and with no pleasant feelings, for she was astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous and very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes she had the little wood all to herself.
She was again roused by sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment, cried out, "Heyday! Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."
Fanny explained.


"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere," looking eagerly into the park. "But they cannot be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without help."
"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."
"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."

"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them. But they cannot be far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without help."
"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."
"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have endured, while you were sitting here composed and happy! You always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."


This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.
"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all were."
"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."
"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for _her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away from."

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, for Julia was vexed. She therefore only asked her if she had seen Mr. Rushworth.
"Yes, he was hurrying away as if upon life and death, and could just spare time to tell us his errand."
"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."
"That is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for her sins. The mother I could not avoid, but the son I can get away from."


And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.
"They desired me to stay-my cousin Maria charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts."
"I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough."
And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away. Fanny now sat in dread of seeing Mr. Rushworth; she felt that he had been very ill-used.
He joined her five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently greatly mortified. His looks expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.
"My cousin Maria charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll."
"I shall not go," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be somewhere else. I have had walking enough."
And he sat down gloomily by Fanny.


"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky." And she longed to be able to say something more to the purpose.
After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well have staid for me," said he.
"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."
"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid."
This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause, he went on-"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him."
"I do not think him at all handsome."

"I am very sorry," said she.
"I think they might have stayed for me," said he.
"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."
"I should not have had to follow her if she had stayed."
Fanny was silenced. After a pause, he went on-"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him."
"I do not think him at all handsome."


"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them."
A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict him.
"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it."
"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems like five."

"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not more than five foot eight. In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them."
A small sigh escaped Fanny here.
"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it."
"Nothing could be more obliging, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you know; and when people are waiting, every half minute seems like five."


He got up and walked to the gate again, and "wished he had had the key about him at the time." Fanny thought she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another attempt, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you should not join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of that sort, you know, can be settled without you."
She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. "Well," said he, "if you really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for nothing." And letting himself out, he walked off without farther ceremony.

He got up and walked to the gate again. Fanny thought he was inclined to relent, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you should not join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from there, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing can be settled without you."
"Well," said he, "if you really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for nothing." And letting himself out, he walked off.


Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the house.
On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.

Fanny's thoughts were now engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just turned up into another, when the laugh of Miss Crawford caught her ear; a few more windings brought them before her. They were just returned from the park, and they had been into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning to reach, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence.
Fanny was assured that Edmund had wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she not been tired; but this was not sufficient to ease the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the curiosity she felt to know what they had been talking about all that time; and she felt depressed as they returned to the house.
As they reached the bottom of the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris appeared at the top, just ready for the wilderness. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster; for the housekeeper had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the recipe for a famous cream cheese; and they had met the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness, and he had shown her his choicest plants, and presented her with a specimen of heath.


On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed, to Fanny's observation, to have been as much too late for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humour.
Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat." The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

They all returned to the house together, to lounge away the time till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been productive of anything useful. By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the meeting which had taken place at last seemed to have been too late to re-establish harmony. There was gloom on the faces of Julia and Mr Rushworth. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and Fanny thought that he was taking particular pains to do away any resentment of the other two, and restore good-humour.
They sat down to table, and then it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door. Mrs. Norris, having obtained a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, was ready to lead the way.
Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat." The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted her, and she received Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box.


"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. "Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's amusement you have had!"
Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, "I think _you_ have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully."

"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. "Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! You ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's amusement you have had!"
Maria was just discontented enough to say, "I think you have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something knocking my elbow unmercifully."


"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well."
"What else have you been spunging?" said Maria, half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener would have me take. Fanny, you carry that parcel for me; take great care of it: it is a cream cheese. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! I can manage the basket very well."
"What else have you been sponging?" said Maria.


"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother shall have some."
It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost all.

"Sponging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures. It will be a great delight in my lonely hours to attend to them."
It was a beautiful evening, and the drive was pleasant; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, those within were altogether silent. Their spirits were exhausted; and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the thoughts of almost all.


It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme; but their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from his moral elevation, and they were both the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well to him, however, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth. When Edmund gave a hint of his hope that the audience would be limited, they were ready to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.


"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_."
"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act."
"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already.

"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade her."
"No, she is quite determined. She will not act."
"Oh! very well." Not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already.


There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged-it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly.

Miss Crawford entered into the affair with such renewed cheerfulness as could have but one effect on Edmund. "He was certainly right in respecting her feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound.
One advantage resulted to Fanny: at Miss Crawford's request, Mrs. Grant agreed to take the part for which Fanny had been wanted. Even this brought a pang, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford's looks of gaiety seemed an insult, and she could hardly answer her friendly expressions calmly.


Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.
Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.

Everybody around her was busy and important; each had their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends: all were finding employment. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and showed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect which could never have belonged to her; and that she could never have supported a scheme which, considering her uncle, she must condemn.
Fanny's heart was not the only saddened one. Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had allowed his attentions, and now that his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence; or, allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.


For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.
"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry," was her observation to Mary.
"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine both sisters are."
"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"

For a day or two, Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do away the affront by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough to persevere; and becoming too busy to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it lucky in quietly putting an end to her expectations. He assured Mrs Grant, with a smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious thought of each other. She cautioned him as to the elder sister, entreating him not to risk too much admiration there.
"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry," was her observation to Mary.
"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine both sisters are."
"Both! no, that must not be. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"


"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a profession and represent the county."
"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing anything yet."
"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?-
Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do her some good."
"I dare say he will be in parliament soon, when Sir Thomas comes."
"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said Mary.


I will parody them-
Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir Thomas's return."

"Everything seems to depend upon Sir Thomas's return."


"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house, and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."
"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in before the articles were signed."
"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry, for a time."

"You will find his consequence very reasonable when you see him, I assure you. He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure Julia does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."
"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stepped in."
"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry, for a time."


Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public disturbance at last.
Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.

Julia did suffer, however. She had loved, she did love still; and she was suffering under the disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, and a strong sense of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. Her sister was now become her greatest enemy: and Julia was not above hoping for some distressing end to the attentions which were still carrying on. The sisters had not affection or principle enough to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia trusted that there would be punishment for Maria at last.
Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but they did not speak of it to each other. They were two solitary sufferers.


The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company, superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half a crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.

The blindness of the two brothers and their aunt to this must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds. Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his theatre. Edmund, with Miss Crawford's claims, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy in directing little matters, and saving half a crown here and there for the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.


Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr. Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired: go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named; but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey, she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little danger of her being wanted.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.

Fanny had not forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next morning; but she was still sanguine as to its effect of her note. If Mr. Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired: go and take his sister with him, as he had intended. And why it was not done already she could not think.
She was astonished to see Mr. Crawford coming up to the house again, at an hour as early as the day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible; and she resolved to remain upstairs during his visit, unless actually sent for.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew gradually composed, and was able to employ herself, and to hope that Mr. Crawford would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.


Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered, said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a heavy step was heard, an unusual step in that part of the house. It was her uncle's; and she began to tremble at the idea of his coming up to speak to her.
It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured. Stopping short as he entered, he said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."


"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this."
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something in which the words "my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.

"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you had the use of this room by way of making you comfortable. It is highly unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this."
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she could not refrain, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying something about "my aunt Norris".