"A shock of heaven and earth is felt--not by the slumbering city, only by that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken in his fanaticism. In the midst of silence, with no preluding sound, he is wrapped in sudden light. Through the roof, through the rent, wide-yawning, vast, white-blazing blue of heaven above, pours a wondrous descent, dread as the downrushing of stars. He has what he asked. Withdraw--forbear to look--I am blinded. I hear in that fane an unspeakable sound. Would that I could not hear it! I see an insufferable glory burning terribly between the pillars. Gods be merciful and quench it!

"A shock of heaven and earth is felt by that brave, lonely watcher. He is wrapped in sudden light. Through the roof, through the wide-yawning, vast blue of heaven, pours a wondrous descent, dread as the downrushing of stars. He has what he asked. I see an insufferable glory burning terribly between the pillars. Gods be merciful and quench it!


"A pious Argive enters to make an early offering in the cool dawn of morning. There was thunder in the night; the bolt fell here. The shrine is shivered, the marble pavement round split and blackened. Saturnia's statue rises chaste, grand, untouched; at her feet piled ashes lie pale. No priest remains; he who watched will be seen no more.
* * * * *

"In the morning, a pious Argive enters to make an early offering. There was thunder in the night; the bolt fell here. The shrine is shivered, the marble pavement split and blackened. Saturnia's statue rises chaste, grand, untouched; at her feet piled ashes lie pale. No priest remains; he who watched will be seen no more.


"There is the carriage! Let me lock up the desk and pocket the keys. She will be seeking them to-morrow; she will have to come to me. I hear her: 'Mr. Moore, have you seen my keys?'

"There is the carriage! Let me lock up the desk and pocket the keys. She will be seeking them tomorrow; she will have to come to me asking if I have seen


"So she will say, in her clear voice, speaking with reluctance, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth time of asking. I will tantalize her, keep her with me, expecting, doubting; and when I _do_ restore them, it shall not be without a lecture. Here is the bag, too, and the purse; the glove--pen--seal. She shall wring them all out of me slowly and separately--only by confession, penitence, entreaty. I never can touch her hand, or a ringlet of her head, or a ribbon of her dress, but I will make privileges for myself. Every feature of her face, her bright eyes, her lips, shall go through each change they know, for my pleasure--display each exquisite variety of glance and curve, to delight, thrill, perhaps more hopelessly to enchain me. If I must be her slave, I will not lose my freedom for nothing."
He locked the desk, pocketed all the property, and went.

 them, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth time of asking. I will tantalize her, before restoring them with a lecture. Here is the bag, too, and the purse; the glove - pen - seal. She shall wring them all out of me slowly and separately - only by confession, penitence, entreaty. Every feature of her face, her bright eyes, her lips, shall go through each change they know, for my pleasure - display each exquisite variety of glance and curve, to delight, thrill, perhaps more hopelessly to enchain me. If I must be her slave, I will not lose my freedom for nothing."
He locked the desk, pocketed all the property, and went.


Moore's good spirits were still with him when he rose next morning. He and Joe Scott had both spent the night in the mill, availing themselves of certain sleeping accommodations producible from recesses in the front and back counting-houses. The master, always an early riser, was up somewhat sooner even than usual. He awoke his man by singing a French song as he made his toilet.
"Ye're not custen dahn, then, maister?" cried Joe.
"Not a stiver, mon garon--which means, my lad. Get up, and we'll take a turn through the mill before the hands come in, and I'll explain my future plans. We'll have the machinery yet, Joseph. You never heard of Bruce, perhaps?"

Moore was still in good spirits when he rose next morning. He and Joe Scott had spent the night in the mill, on camp-beds kept in the counting-houses. The master was up early, and awoke his man by singing a French song as he dressed.
"Get up, Joseph, and we'll walk through the mill before the hands come in, and I'll explain my plans. We'll have the machinery yet. You never heard of Bruce, perhaps?"


"And th' arrand (spider)? Yes, but I hev. I've read th' history o' Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye; and I understand ye to mean to say ye'll persevere."
"I do."
"Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country?" inquired Joe, as he folded up his temporary bed, and put it away.
"In my country! Which is my country?"
"Why, France--isn't it?"

"And the spider? Yes, I hev. Ye mean to say ye'll persevere."
"I do."
"Is there many like you i' your country?" inquired Joe, as he folded up his bed.
"In my country! Which is my country?"
"Why, France - isn't it?"


"Not it, indeed! The circumstance of the French having seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not make me a Frenchman."
"Holland, then?"
"I am not a Dutchman. Now you are confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam."
"Flanders?"

"No, indeed! Just because the French have seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not make me a Frenchman."
"Dutch, then?"
"Now you are confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam."
"Flanders?"


"I scorn the insinuation, Joe! I a Flamand! Have I a Flemish face--the clumsy nose standing out, the mean forehead falling back, the pale blue eyes ' fleur de tte'? Am I all body and no legs, like a Flamand? But you don't know what they are like, those Netherlanders. Joe, I'm an Anversois. My mother was an Anversoise, though she came of French lineage, which is the reason I speak French."
"But your father war Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; and onybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're so keen o' making brass, and getting forrards."
"Joe, you're an impudent dog; but I've always been accustomed to a boorish sort of insolence from my youth up. The 'classe ouvrire'--that is, the working people in Belgium--bear themselves brutally towards their employers; and by _brutally_, Joe, I mean _brutalement_--which, perhaps, when properly translated, should be _roughly_."

"I scorn the insinuation, Joe! Have I a Flemish face, with a clumsy nose and pale blue eyes? Am I all body and no legs? Joe, I'm an Anversois - a native of Antwerp - though my mother came of French lineage, which is why I speak French."
"But your father were Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; and onybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're so keen o' making brass."
"Joe, you're an impudent dog."


"We allus speak our minds i' this country; and them young parsons and grand folk fro' London is shocked at wer 'incivility;' and we like weel enough to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us to watch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bits o' hands, like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say, nipping off their words short like, 'Dear! dear! Whet seveges! How very corse!'"
"You _are_ savages, Joe. You don't suppose you're civilized, do you?"

"We allus speak our minds i' this country; and them young parsons and grand folk fro' London is shocked at it; and we like to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, so we can watch 'em widen their eyes, and say, 'Dear! dear! Whet seveges! How very coarse!'"
"You are savages, Joe. You don't suppose you're civilized, do you?"


"Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and knaws a deal more nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and them that's mechanics like me is forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after machinery and sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an effect, I look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't to purpose; and then I like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what them that reckons to govern us aims to do for us and wi' us. And there's many 'cuter nor me; there's many a one amang them greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them dyers wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and that can tell what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or old Yorke, and a deal better nor soft uns like Christopher Sykes o' Whinbury, and greet hectoring nowts like yond' Irish Peter, Helstone's curate."
"You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, Scott."
"Ay! I'm fairish. I can tell cheese fro' chalk, and I'm varry weel aware that I've improved sich opportunities as I have had, a deal better nor some 'at reckons to be aboon me; but there's thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good as me, and a two-three that's better."

"Middling, maister. I reckon us manufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade sharpens our wits; and mechanics like me is forced to think. When I see an effect, I look straight away for a cause; and then I like reading."
"You think yourself a clever fellow, Scott."
"Ay! I'm fairish; but there's thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good as me, and a few that's better."


"You're a great man--you're a sublime fellow; but you're a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe! You need not to think that because you've picked up a little knowledge of practical mathematics, and because you have found some scantling of the elements of chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected man of science; and you need not to suppose that because the course of trade does not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimes short of work and of bread, that therefore your class are martyrs, and that the whole form of government under which you live is wrong. And, moreover, you need not for a moment to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in cottages and wholly abandoned slated houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate that sort of trash, because I know so well that human nature is human nature everywhere, whether under tile or thatch, and that in every specimen of human nature that breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is not determined by station. I have seen villains who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich nor poor, but who had realized Agar's wish, and lived in fair and modest competency. The clock is going to strike six. Away with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell."

"You're a sublime fellow; but you're a conceited noodle too, Joe! You need not think that because you've picked up a little mathematics, and the elements of chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected man of science. Virtue does not live only in workmen's cottages. Human nature is human nature everywhere, amongst rich or poor, and in between. Away with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell."


It was now the middle of the month of February; by six o'clock therefore dawn was just beginning to steal on night, to penetrate with a pale ray its brown obscurity, and give a demi-translucence to its opaque shadows. Pale enough that ray was on this particular morning: no colour tinged the east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly lifted, what a wan glance she flung along the hills, you would have thought the sun's fire quenched in last night's floods. The breath of this morning was chill as its aspect; a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, and showed, as it slowly rose, leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ring all round the horizon, not blue sky, but a stratum of paler vapour beyond. It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools and rivulets were full.
The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rung loud, and now the little children came running in, in too great a hurry, let us hope, to feel very much nipped by the inclement air; and indeed, by contrast, perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable to them than otherwise, for they had often come to their work that winter through snow-storms, through heavy rain, through hard frost.

It was now the middle of February; dawn was just beginning to penetrate the brown obscurity of night with a pale ray. No colour tinged the east, as day slowly lifted a heavy eyelid. The morning was chill; a raw wind blew. It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools and rivulets were full.
The mill-windows were alight, the bell rung loud, and now the little children came running in, in too great a hurry, let us hope, to feel the cold.


Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass. He counted them as they went by. To those who came rather late he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerers reached the work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely. They were not savage men either of them, though it appeared both were rigid, for they fined a delinquent who came considerably too late. Mr. Moore made him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed him that the next repetition of the fault would cost him twopence.
Rules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and coarse and cruel masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at the time we treat of at least, they used sometimes to enforce tyrannically; but though I describe imperfect characters (every character in this book will be found to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the model line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly infamous ones. Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers, I consign to the hands of jailers. The novelist may be excused from sullying his page with the record of their deeds.

Mr. Moore stood at the entrance, counting them as they went by. To those who came late he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe Scott when they reached the work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely, although they fined one boy a penny for coming very late.
Though I describe imperfect characters (every character in this book will be found to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the model line), I do not handle utterly degraded ones. There are no child-torturers or slave drivers here.


Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul and delighting his organ of wonder with effective descriptions of stripes and scourgings, I am happy to be able to inform him that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a child in their mill. Joe had, indeed, once very severely flogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persisting in it; but, like his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm, as well as too reasonable a man, to make corporal chastisement other than the exception to his treatment of the young.
Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dye-house, and his warehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened into day. The sun even rose--at least a white disc, clear, tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length of the den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at present limited. It was eight o'clock; the mill lights were all extinguished; the signal was given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil, betook themselves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to the small baskets which contained their allowance of bread. Let us hope they have enough to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise.

I am happy to inform my reader that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a child in their mill.
Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his dye-house, and his warehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened into day. The sun rose - a clear white disc, as chill as ice. At eight o'clock the signal was given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil, opened their little tin cans of coffee, and their small baskets of bread.


And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and bent his steps to his dwelling-house. It was only a short distance from the factory, but the hedge and high bank on each side of the lane which conducted to it seemed to give it something of the appearance and feeling of seclusion. It was a small, whitewashed place, with a green porch over the door; scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil near this porch, and likewise beneath the windows--stalks budless and flowerless now, but giving dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days. A grass plat and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented only black mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of snowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring was late; it had been a severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snow had but just disappeared before yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed, white remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crowning the peaks; the lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as was the grass on the bank, and under the hedge in the lane. Three trees, gracefully grouped, rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but having no rivals near, they looked well and imposing where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore's home--a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one within which the wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.

And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and went to his house. It was only a short distance from the factory, but secluded by a hedge and high bank on each side of the lane. It was a small, whitewashed place, with a green porch over the door; scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil beneath the windows, predicting blooming creepers for summer days. Only in sheltered nooks did the first shoots of snowdrop or crocus peep, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring was late; the last deep snow had only just disappeared. Three trees, not lofty, but graceful, rose beside the cottage. It was a snug nest, but one within which the wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.


Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular attraction for its owner. Instead of entering the house at once he fetched a spade from a little shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of an hour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however, a window opened, and a female voice called to him,--
"Eh, bien! Tu ne djenes pas ce matin?"
The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in French; but as this is an English book, I shall translate it into English.
"Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"
"Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."

Instead of entering the house, Mr. Moore fetched a spade from a shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of an hour he dug, until a window opened, and a female voice called:
"Eh, bien! Tu ne djenes pas ce matin?"
His answer, and the rest of the conversation, I shall translate into English.
"Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"
"Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."


"Then I am ready too. I have a canine hunger."
He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passage conducted him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of stewed pears, was spread on the table. Over these viands presided the lady who had spoken from the window. I must describe her before I go any farther.
She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore--perhaps she was thirty-five, tall, and proportionately stout; she had very black hair, for the present twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, a small nose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her face was large in proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rather corrugated; she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression of countenance; there was something in her whole appearance one felt inclined to be half provoked with and half amused at. The strangest point was her dress--a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole. The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair of feet and ankles which left much to be desired in the article of symmetry.

"Then I am ready too."
He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passage led him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee, bread and butter, and stewed pears, was spread on the table. Over this meal presided the lady who had spoken from the window.
She was a little older than Mr. Moore - perhaps thirty-five, tall, and stout; she had very black hair, twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, and little black eyes. Her forehead was rather corrugated; she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression. The strangest point was her dress - a short petticoat and a striped cotton camisole.


You will think I have depicted a remarkable slattern, reader. Not at all. Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly, economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were her morning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always been accustomed to "go her household ways" in her own country. She did not choose to adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England; she adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a merit in so doing.

You will think she is a remarkable slattern, reader. Not at all. Hortense Moore, Mr. Moore's sister, was a very orderly, economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were her usual morning costume: she adhered to her old Belgian customs.


Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself--an opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed some good and sterling qualities; but she rather over-estimated the kind and degree of these qualities, and quite left out of the account sundry little defects which accompanied them. You could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and narrow-minded person, that she was too susceptible on the subject of her own dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles; yet all this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were not opposed, and where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another Grard Moore besides Robert) she was very much attached. As the sole remaining representatives of their decayed family, the persons of both were almost sacred in her eyes. Of Louis, however, she knew less than of Robert. He had been sent to England when a mere boy, and had received his education at an English school. His education not being such as to adapt him for trade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not inclining him to mercantile pursuits, he had, when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered it necessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the very arduous and very modest career of a teacher. He had been usher in a school, and was said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentioned Louis, described him as having what she called "des moyens," but as being too backward and quiet.

Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself - an opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed some good qualities; but she over-estimated her own virtues, and quite left out her various little defects. You could never have persuaded her that she was prejudiced and narrow-minded, with too much self-importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles; yet all this was true.
However, she could be kind and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another besides Robert) she was very much attached. Louis, however, she knew less well than Robert. He had been sent to an English school when a mere boy, and had followed the arduous and modest career of a teacher. He had taught in a school, and was said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense thought of him as backward and quiet.


Her praise of Robert was in a different strain, less qualified: she was very proud of him; she regarded him as the greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she expected others to behold him from the same point of view; nothing could be more irrational, monstrous, and infamous than opposition from any quarter to Robert, unless it were opposition to herself.
Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at the breakfast-table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed pears, and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a flood of amazement and horror at the transaction of last night, the destruction of the frames.
"Quelle ide! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bien que les ouvriers de ce pays taient la fois betes et mchants. C'tait absolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: rien d'insupportable comme cette Sara, par exemple!"
"She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.

She was very proud of Robert, regarding him as the greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she expected others to have the same opinion.
As soon as Robert was seated at the breakfast-table, and she had helped him to some stewed pears and a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a flood of amazement and horror at last night's destruction of the frames.
"What a shameful thing to do! It's clear that English workers are wicked beasts, just like English servants - that Sarah, for one!"
"She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.


"Looks! I don't know how she looks, and I do not say that she is altogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une insolence! She disputed with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef; she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would never be able to eat such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than greasy warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannot touch it! That barrel we have in the cellar--delightfully prepared by my own hands--she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I am harassed with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should get a worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cher frre!"
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."

"Looks? I do not say that she is dirty or idle, but her insolence! She disputed with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about cooking the beef; she said I boiled it to rags, and that my stock was no better than greasy water! Yet I cannot part with the girl lest I should get a worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, my poor brother!"
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."


"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise there are certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town. All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-lev). I find my habits considered ridiculous. If a girl out of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers. If I accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, I perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are the Grards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim a certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. In Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would think that when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous accent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly."
"Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never known but poor."

"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but certainly people here appear to me ill-bred. They consider my habits ridiculous. If a girl from your mill chances to come into the kitchen and finds me in my camisole and petticoat, she sneers. If I accept an invitation to tea, I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention paid me which is my due. The Grards are an excellent family, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim respect. In Antwerp I was always treated with distinction."
"Hortense, in Antwerp we were known as rich; in England we have always been known as poor."


"Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet; accordingly I went to church in my neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable city, but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use for walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, composed and tranquil, as I am always, four ladies, and as many gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer-books."
"Well, well! don't put on the sabots again. I told you before I thought they were not quite the thing for this country."
"But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots noirs, trs propres, trs convenables. At Mons and Leuze--cities not very far removed from the elegant capital of Brussels--it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anything else for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of the Flemish chausses in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en dirait des nouvelles!"

"Again, dear brother, last Sunday, because it was wet, I went to church in my neat black sabots, footwear which one would not indeed wear in a fashionable city, but which in the country I have always used on dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, four ladies laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer-books."
"Well, well! don't wear them again. I told you before they were not quite the thing for this country.


"Never mind Mons and Leuze and the Flemish chausses; do at Rome as the Romans do. And as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask Caroline Helstone."
"Caroline! _I_ ask Caroline? _I_ consult her about my dress? It is _she_ who on all points should consult _me_. She is a child."
"She is eighteen, or at least seventeen--old enough to know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures."

And as to the camisole and petticoat, I am not sure about them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask Caroline Helstone."
"Caroline! I consult her about my dress? It is she who on all points should consult me. She is a child."
"She is eighteen - old enough to know all about gowns and petticoats."


"Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother. Do not make her of more consequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest and unassuming: let us keep her so."
"With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?"
"She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson."
"You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?"
"She does not. She appreciates me better than any one else here; but then she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me. She sees that I have education, intelligence, manner, principles--all, in short, which belongs to a person well born and well bred."

"Do not make Caroline of more consequence than she ought to be, brother. At present she is modest and unassuming: let us keep her so."
"With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?"
"At ten, as usual, for her French lesson."
"You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?"
"She does not. She appreciates me better than anyone else here; but then she sees more of me. She sees that I have the education and manner of a person well born and well bred."


"Are you at all fond of her?"
"For _fond_ I cannot say. I am not one who is prone to take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on. I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather to enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other causes."
"She behaves pretty well at lessons?"
"To _me_ she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that I have a manner calculated to repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, and to command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceive clearly that Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her."
"Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me with an account of her faults."

"Are you fond of her?" asked Moore.
"I have a regard for her as my relative; and she behaves very well at lessons. But you know, brother, that my manner commands respect. Yet I perceive clearly that Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her."
"Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it, amuse me with an account of her faults."


"Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish, after the fatiguing night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective; but with my forming hand and almost motherly care she may improve. There is about her an occasional something--a reserve, I think--which I do not quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate and decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove what is not intelligible."
"I don't understand your account in the least. What do you mean by 'unsettled hurries,' for instance?"

"Caroline is defective; but with my motherly care she may improve. She has an occasional reserve, which I do not quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate."
"I don't understand. What do you mean by 'unsettled hurry'?"


"An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read French poetry by way of practice in pronunciation. She has in the course of her lessons gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking rather of apathy than sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who have the benefit of my instructions--besides, one should not be apathetic in studying standard works. The other day I put into her hands a volume of short fugitive pieces. I sent her to the window to learn one by heart, and when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with scorn, as she surveyed the little poems cursorily. I chid her. 'Ma cousine,' said she, 'tout cela m'ennuie la mort.' I told her this was improper language. 'Dieu!'

"For example, when I ask her to read French poetry to practice her pronunciation. She has gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as I approve. Occasionally she seemed, indeed, apathetic. The other day I gave her a book of short pieces, to learn one by heart. I saw her turning the leaves over impatiently, and curling her lip with scorn. I chided her. 'Cousin,' said she, 'all this bores me to death. Are there not two lines of poetry in all of French literature?'


she exclaimed, 'il n'y a donc pas deux lignes de posie dans toute la littrature franaise?' I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon with proper submission. Ere long she was still. I saw her smiling to herself over the book. She began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came and stood before me, presented the volume, folded her hands, as I always require her to do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing by Chnier, 'La Jeune Captive.' If you had heard the manner in which she went through this, and in which she uttered a few incoherent comments when she had done, you would have known what I meant by the phrase 'unsettled hurry.' One would have thought Chnier was more moving than all Racine and all Corneille. You, brother, who have so much sagacity, will discern that this disproportionate preference argues an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in her preceptress.

I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon, and began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she stood before me, and recited Chenier's La Jeune Captive. If you had heard her, you would have known what I meant by 'unsettled hurry.' One would have thought Chnier was more moving than all Racine and Corneille. She has an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortunate in her teacher.


I will give her a system, a method of thought, a set of opinions; I will give her the perfect control and guidance of her feelings."
"Be sure you do, Hortense. Here she comes. That was her shadow passed the window, I believe."
"Ah! truly. She is too early--half an hour before her time.--My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"
This question was addressed to an individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle, the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender figure.

I will give her a set of opinions; I will guide her feelings."
"Be sure you do, Hortense. Here she comes."
"Ah! She is half an hour early. -My child, what brings you here before I have breakfasted?"
This question was addressed to a young girl who now entered the room, wrapped in a winter mantle which was gathered gracefully round a slender figure.


"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and how Robert was too. I was sure you would be both grieved by what happened last night. I did not hear till this morning. My uncle told me at breakfast."
"Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us? Your uncle sympathizes with us?"
"My uncle is very angry--but he was with Robert, I believe, was he not?--Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor?"
"Yes, we set out in very martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way."

"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and Robert too. I was sure you would both be grieved by what happened last night. My uncle told me about it at breakfast. He is very angry - but he was with Robert, was he not? Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Moor?"
"Yes, we set out in martial style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way."


"Of course nobody was hurt?"
"Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists were a little galled with being pinioned too tightly behind his back."
"You were not there? You were not with the wagons when they were attacked?"
"No. One seldom has the fortune to be present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist."
"Where are you going this morning? I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard."
"To Whinbury. It is market day."

"Nobody was hurt?"
"Why, no."
"You were not with the wagons when they were attacked?"
"No."
"Where are you going this morning?" asked Caroline. "I saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard."
"To Whinbury. It is market day."


"Mr. Yorke is going too. I met him in his gig. Come home with him."
"Why?"
"Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke--at least, poor people do not dislike him."
"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?"
"Who are _misunderstood_. That, probably, is the word. Shall you be late?--Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?"

"Mr. Yorke is going too. I met him in his gig. Come home with him. Two are better than one, and nobody dislikes Mr. Yorke."
"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am hated?" suggested Moore.
"Misunderstood, not hated.


"It is too probable. He has often much business to transact at Whinbury. Have you brought your exercise-book, child?"
"Yes.--What time will you return, Robert?"
"I generally return at seven. Do you wish me to be at home earlier?"
"Try rather to be back by six. It is not absolutely dark at six now, but by seven daylight is quite gone."
"And what danger is to be apprehended, Caroline, when daylight _is_ gone? What peril do you conceive comes as the companion of darkness for me?"

What time will you return, Robert?"
"I generally return at seven.'
"Try to be back by six. By seven daylight is quite gone."
"And what danger do you foresee for me in darkness, Caroline?"


"I am not sure that I can define my fears, but we all have a certain anxiety at present about our friends. My uncle calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular."
"And I am one of the most unpopular? Is not that the fact? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you think me liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at--not, indeed, from behind a hedge, but in his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going to bed."
"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-door," remarked Caroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and arranged it and her muff on a side-table. "You know," she continued, "there is a hedge all the way along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the Fieldhead plantations to pass; but you will be back by six--or before?"
"Certainly he will," affirmed Hortense. "And now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I put the peas to soak for the pure at dinner."

"I am not sure, but we all feel anxious at present. My uncle calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular."
"And I am one of the most unpopular? Is not that the fact? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but you think I may be attacked, like Pearson - who was shot in his own house, through the window."
"Anne Pearson showed me the bullet," said Caroline gravely. "You will be back by six?"
"Certainly he will," affirmed Hortense. "And now, my child, prepare your lessons, while I put the peas to soak for dinner."


With this direction she left the room.
"You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore, "and doubtless you know me to be destitute of friends?"
"Not destitute, Robert. There is your sister, your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; there is Mr. Yorke, and there is my uncle--besides, of course, many more."

She left the room.
"You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline," said Mr. Moore. "Have I no friends?"
"Your sister, and your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; and Mr. Yorke, and my uncle - besides, of course, many more."


Robert smiled. "You would be puzzled to name your 'many more,'" said he. "But show me your exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form you in all things after the model of a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments, when they are acquired?"

Robert smiled. "You would be puzzled to name your 'many more,'" said he. "But show me your exercise-book. What careful handwriting! My sister wants to form you like a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments, when they are acquired?"


"You may well say, when they are acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell. I suppose to keep my uncle's house till----" She hesitated.
"Till what? Till he dies?"
"No. How harsh to say that! I never think of his dying. He is only fifty-five. But till--in short, till events offer other occupations for me."

"You may well say, when they are acquired; for till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell. I suppose to keep my uncle's house till - till events offer other occupations for me."


"A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?"
"I used to be, formerly. Children, you know, have little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal themes. There are moments _now_ when I am not quite satisfied."
"Why?"
"I am making no money--earning nothing."
"You come to the point, Lina. You too, then, wish to make money?"

"A remarkably vague prospect! Are you content with it?"
"I used to be. But there are moments now when I am not quite satisfied. I am earning nothing."
"You wish to make money, Lina?"


"I do. I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."
"Go on. Let us hear what way."
"I could be apprenticed to your trade--the cloth-trade. I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, while you went to market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help you to get rich."

"I do. I should like an occupation; and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I can see such an easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life."
"Go on. Let us hear how."
"I could be apprenticed to your trade - the cloth-trade. I could learn it from you. I could keep the books and write the letters, while you went to market. I know you want to pay your father's debts; perhaps I could help you."


"Help _me_? You should think of yourself."
"I do think of myself; but must one for ever think only of oneself?"
"Of whom else do I think? Of whom else _dare_ I think? The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty to be narrow."
"No, Robert----"
"Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted, grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may smell like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke Prudence to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping as any north wind."

"Help me? You should think of yourself."
"I do think of myself; but must one think only of oneself?"
"Of whom else dare I think? The poor need to have narrow sympathies. Poverty is selfish and anxious, and sympathy must be checked by Prudence, whose frosty breath is as nipping as any north wind.


"No cottage would be happy then."
"When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed penury of the man in debt. My grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling, care-worn tradesman."
"Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have become too fixed in your mind. It may be presumptuous to say it, but I have the impression that there is something wrong in your notions of the best means of attaining happiness, as there is in----" Second hesitation.
"I am all ear, Caroline."
"In (courage! let me speak the truth)--in your manner--mind, I say only _manner_--to these Yorkshire workpeople."
"You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"

By poverty, I mean the embarrassed penury of the man in debt."
"Cherish hope, not anxiety," urged Caroline. "I feel there is something wrong in your notions of the best way of attaining happiness, as there is in - in your manner to the Yorkshire workpeople."
"You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"


"Yes; often--very often."
"The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative. I am not proud. What has a man in my position to be proud of? I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless."
"As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines like your frames and shears. In your own house you seem different."

"Yes; very often."
"The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative. I am not proud. I am only taciturn, and serious."
"As if your workmen were machines like your frames. In your own house you seem different."


"To those of my own house I am no alien, which I am to these English clowns. I might act the benevolent with them, but acting is not my _forte_. I find them irrational, perverse; they hinder me when I long to hurry forward. In treating them justly I fulfil my whole duty towards them."
"You don't expect them to love you, of course?"
"Nor wish it."
"Ah!" said the monitress, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh. With this ejaculation, indicative that she perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, but that it was out of her reach to set it right, she bent over her grammar, and sought the rule and exercise for the day.

"I am an alien to them. And for my part I find them irrational, perverse; they hinder me when I long to hurry forward. I don't expect them to love me."
"Ah!" said Caroline, shaking her head and heaving a deep sigh.


"I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline. The attachment of a very few suffices me."
"If you please, Robert, will you mend me a pen or two before you go?"
"First let me rule your book, for you always contrive to draw the lines aslant. There now. And now for the pens. You like a fine one, I think?"
"Such as you generally make for me and Hortense; not your own broad points."
"If I were of Louis's calling I might stay at home and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes's wool-warehouse."
"You will be making money."

"I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline. The attachment of a very few people is enough for me."
"Please, Robert, will you mend my pen before you go?"
"First let me rule your book, for you always manage to draw the lines aslant. There now. If I were a tutor like Louis I might stay and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I must spend it in Skyes's wool-warehouse."
"You will be making money."


"More likely losing it."
As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate.
"There, Fred is ready for me; I must go. I'll take one look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too, first."
He quitted the room, and went out into the garden ground behind the mill. A sweet fringe of young verdure and opening flowers--snowdrop, crocus, even primrose--bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory. Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a little bouquet. He returned to the parlour, pilfered a thread of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid them on Caroline's desk.
"Now, good-morning."

"More likely losing it. There, my horse is ready; I must go. I'll take a look at the garden first."
He went out into the garden behind the mill. A sweet fringe of snowdrop, crocus and primrose bloomed in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory. Moore plucked a little bouquet of flowers, returned to the parlour, and laid them on Caroline's desk.


"Thank you, Robert. It is pretty; it looks, as it lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky. Good-morning."
He went to the door, stopped, opened his lips as if to speak, said nothing, and moved on. He passed through the wicket, and mounted his horse. In a second he had flung himself from his saddle again, transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.
"I forgot my gloves," he said, appearing to take something from the side-table; then, as an impromptu thought, he remarked, "You have no binding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"
"I never have. Some children's socks, which Mrs. Ramsden has ordered, to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."

"Thank you, Robert. It is pretty; it looks like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky. Good-morning."
Robert went to the door, stopped as if about to speak; said nothing, and went out. But in a second he re-entered the cottage.
"I forgot my gloves," he said, and then asked, "You have no binding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?"
"I never have. Some children's socks to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will keep."


"Jew's basket be--sold! Never was utensil better named. Anything more Jewish than it--its contents and their prices--cannot be conceived. But I see something, a very tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, which tells me that you know its merits as well as I do. Forget the Jew's basket, then, and spend the day here as a change. Your uncle won't break his heart at your absence?"
She smiled. "No."
"The old Cossack! I dare say not," muttered Moore.

"Forget the Jew's basket, and spend the day here for a change. Your uncle won't break his heart at your absence?"
She smiled. "No."


"Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your company. I shall return in good time. We will have a little reading in the evening. The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the rectory with you at nine. Do you agree?"
She nodded her head, and her eyes lit up.
Moore lingered yet two minutes. He bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, he lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatient; Fred Murgatroyd hemmed and coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing. "Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally vanished.
Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.

"Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your company. When I return, we will have a little reading in the evening. The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the rectory with you at nine. Do you agree?"
She nodded her head, and her eyes lit up.
Moore lingered for two more minutes. He bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatiently; his groom coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing.
"Good-morning," again said Moore, and finally vanished.
Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet begun her exercise.


Messrs. Helstone and Sykes began to be extremely jocose and congratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to them after dismissing the deputation. He was so quiet, however, under their compliments upon his firmness, etc., and wore a countenance so like a still, dark day, equally beamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and said to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to discover unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance, "Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together. Had we not better bear each other company? We'll bid Moore good-morning, and leave him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to indulge."
"And where is Sugden?" demanded Moore, looking up.

Messrs. Helstone and Sykes congratulated Mr. Moore when he returned to them. He was so quiet, however, and so still and grim, that the rector, after glancing shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his coat, and said to Sykes:
"Come, sir; your road and mine lie partly together. We'll bid Moore good-morning."
"Where is Sugden?" demanded Moore.


"Ah, ha!" cried Helstone. "I've not been quite idle while you were busy. I've been helping you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously. I thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that down-looking gentleman--Farren I think his name is--I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses--wooden leg and all--through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes's permission, of course). Sugden took the reins--he drives like Jehu--and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."
"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen," he added, and so politely conducted them to the door, and saw them clear of his premises.
He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day. He did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he "could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would do him good."

"Ah, ha!" cried Helstone. "I've not been quite idle. While you were busy parleying with that Farren, I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses - wooden leg and all - through the opening, and saw them mount the gig. Sugden took the reins, and in another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail."
"Very good; thank you," said Moore; "and good-morning, gentlemen." He politely conducted them to the door.
He was taciturn and serious the rest of the day. He did not even bandy repartee with Joe Scott, who looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, and as he was locking up for the day, observed that it was a grand evening, and he "could wish Mr. Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would do him good."


At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however, ere he had reached the yard-gate.
"Joe, do you know those Farrens? They are not well off, I suppose?"
"They cannot be well off, sir, when they've not had work as a three month. Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sorely changed--fair paired. They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house."
"He was not a bad workman?"
"Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade."
"And decent people--the whole family?"

At this, Mr. Moore burst into a short laugh, and after demanding whether Joe took him for a woman or a child, he seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him out by the shoulders. He called him back, however, to ask:
"Joe, do you know those Farrens? They are not well off, I suppose?"
"No, sir, for they've not had work for three month. They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house."
"He was not a bad workman?"
"Ye never had a better, sir."
"And decent people - the family?"


"Niver dacenter. Th' wife's a raight cant body, and as clean--ye mught eat your porridge off th' house floor. They're sorely comed down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat i' that way; he understands gardening weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman that tached him the mysteries o' that craft, as they say."
"Now, then, you can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me."
"Ye've no orders to give, sir?"
"None, but for you to take yourself off."
Which Joe did accordingly.

"None dacenter. Th' wife's a raight cant body, and so clean ye mught eat your porridge off th' floor. They're sorely comed down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or summat; he understands gardening."
"You can go, Joe. You need not stand there staring at me."
"Ye've no orders to give, sir?"
"None. Take yourself off."
Which Joe did accordingly.


* * * * *
Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke's residence), and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level of his lawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-trees rising tall behind the house.

Though this had been a fine day, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and by dusk frost was insidiously stealing over the grass. It whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains, Mr. Yorke's house, and made silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden.


In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from windows shone vividly. This was no dark or lonely scene, nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway. It was rather an old place, and had been built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding up through fields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as there was even now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the illumination of its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description, such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by the Spirit to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the vicinage. The words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from different strains; for the singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn and from tune to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own:--

In the moonless night, lights from the windows shone vividly. This was no lonely scene; Briarmains stood near the highway. It was an old place, built before the highway was cut. Briarfield town lay scarce a mile off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel, a large, new, raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose a hundred yards distant; and as there was a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, its windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn roused cheery echoes. The words were distinctly audible, sung with a jaunty buoyancy:


"Oh! who can explain This struggle for life, This travail and pain, This trembling and strife? Plague, earthquake, and famine, And tumult and war, The wonderful coming Of Jesus declare!
"For every fight Is dreadful and loud: The warrior's delight Is slaughter and blood, His foes overturning, Till all shall expire: And this is with burning, And fuel, and fire!"
Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans. A shout of "I've found liberty!" "Doad o' Bill's has fun' liberty!" rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly broke again.

"Oh! who can explain
This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,
This trembling and strife?"
After the hymn followed clamorous prayer, accompanied by fearful groans and frantic shouts, and more noisy singing.


"What a mercy is this! What a heaven of bliss! How unspeakably happy am I! Gathered into the fold, With Thy people enrolled, With Thy people to live and to die!
"Oh, the goodness of God In employing a clod His tribute of glory to raise; His standard to bear, And with triumph declare His unspeakable riches of grace!
"Oh, the fathomless love That has deigned to approve And prosper the work of my hands. With my pastoral crook I went over the brook, And behold I am spread into bands!
"Who, I ask in amaze, Hath begotten me these? And inquire from what quarter they came. My full heart it replies, They are born from the skies, And gives glory to God and the Lamb!"


The stanza which followed this, after another and longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries, agonized groans, seemed to cap the climax of noise and zeal.
"Sleeping on the brink of sin, Tophet gaped to take us in; Mercy to our rescue flew, Broke the snare, and brought us through.
"Here, as in a lion's den, Undevoured we still remain, Pass secure the watery flood, Hanging on the arm of God.
"Here----"
(Terrible, most distracting to the ear, was the strained shout in which the last stanza was given.)
"Here we raise our voices higher, Shout in the refiner's fire, Clap our hands amidst the flame, Glory give to Jesus' name!"
The roof of the chapel did _not_ fly off, which speaks volumes in praise of its solid slating.
But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains, though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter phase of existence than the temple. Some of its windows too were aglow; the lower casements opened upon the lawn; curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entirely muffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter that front door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.

Briarmains was quieter. Its windows too were aglow; curtains concealed the interior, but did not entirely muffle the sound of voices and laughter. We are privileged to enter that front door, and to


It is not the presence of company which makes Mr. Yorke's habitation lively, for there is none within it save his own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the back parlour.
This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stained glass, purple and amber the predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in the centre of each, representing the suave head of William Shakespeare, and the serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hung on the walls--green forest and blue water scenery--and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius; very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths of woods.

 join Mr. Yorke's family within.
This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. Those windows are of brilliantly-stained glass, with purple and amber glittering round a medallion in the centre of each, representing the heads of Shakespeare and Milton. Some Canadian views hang on the walls - green forest and blue water - and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of Vesuvius.


The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of a private apartment. It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke _will_ have such fires even in warm summer weather. He sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow supporting a candle; but he is not reading--he is watching his children. Opposite to him sits his lady--a personage whom I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me--a large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, but not overwhelming, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day! Mrs. Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning, noon, and, night; and hard things she thought if any unhappy wight--especially of the female sex--who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew no distinctions.

The fire is heaped high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke sits beside it with a book; but he is not reading - he is watching his children. Opposite him sits his lady: a large woman of grave aspect, wearing an expression of care - the sort of care of a person who deems it her duty to be gloomy. In Mrs. Yorke's opinion, to be cheerful was to be frivolous.


Yet she was a very good wife, a very careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was sincerely attached to her husband; only the worst of it was, if she could have had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the world beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at arm's length.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable man, an advocate for family unity; and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her, how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into the analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcast nature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; took stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of human nature; considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, things, creeds, and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever she looked, wherever she turned.

Yet she was a very good wife, a careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, and was sincerely attached to her husband; although if she could, she would not have allowed him any friend in the world besides herself.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well; yet he was a social, hospitable man, and in his youth, as has been said, he liked lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her is puzzling. But Yorke had a shadowy side as well as a sunny side to his character, and his shadowy side found sympathy in his wife's overcast nature. For the rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; was rather stern and cynical; considered herself right, and the rest of the world all wrong. Her main fault was a brooding suspicion of all men, things and beliefs, which hindered her vision.


It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings; and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee. It is all her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect, condemn; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore she loves it.

It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were not likely to turn out commonplace beings; and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on the mother's knee. It is all her own still, and therefore she loves it.


The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both now at their father's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father--the most like him of the whole group--but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face--his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than childlike; a serious soul lights them--a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either--stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Rose is a still, sometimes a stubborn, girl now. Her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself--a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language.

The two next are girls, Rose and Jessy; they are both at their father's knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father, but softened, with round cheeks and grey eyes lit by a serious soul - a young soul yet, but it will mature; and neither father nor mother have a spirit to compare with it. Rose is sometimes a stubborn girl, with a mind thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day. Rose loves her father, for he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live long, and


This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.
He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch, original even now; passionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting, yet generous; fearless--of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied--yet reliant on any who will help her. Jessy, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is. It is odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, as Rose resembles her father, and yet the physiognomy--how different!
Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they will be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is here: you shall learn their destinies--and first that of your little life, Jessy.

 this idea makes him sadly tender to her.
He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch and original; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting, yet generous; fearless of her mother, yet reliant on anyone who will help her. Jessy, with her engaging prattle and winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is.
Let us hold up a magic mirror, and see their destinies.


Do you know this place? No, you never saw it; but you recognize the nature of these trees, this foliage--the cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place--green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived through an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a grave.

This place is unfamiliar, but the stone crosses are not; we recognize the cypress and the yew. Here is the place where Jessy sleeps. Much loved was she, much loving. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's arms, for Rose had been her stay and defence through many trials.


Now, behold Rose two years later. The crosses and garlands looked strange, but the hills and woods of this landscape look still stranger. This, indeed, is far from England; remote must be the shores which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin solitude. Unknown birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come back?

Now, behold Rose two years later. This landscape is far from England; remote must be those wild, luxuriant shores. Unknown birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come back?


The three eldest of the family are all boys--Matthew, Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observe their three heads: much alike at a first glance; at a second, different; at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; small English features they all possess; all own a blended resemblance to sire and mother; and yet a distinctive physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to each.

The three eldest of the family are all boys - Matthew, Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in the corner, their three heads much alike at first glance. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; yet a distinctive character belongs to each.


I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of the house, though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him long, and conjecturing what qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy: that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as you will, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister, to which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, ever and anon, it reminds you strangely--the eruption of Vesuvius? Flame and shadow seem the component parts of that lad's soul--no daylight in it, and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has an English frame, but, apparently, not an English mind--you would say, an Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in the game--look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he say? In a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother." And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically, they decry partiality--no rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house; but Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed; they avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder.

Matthew, the first-born, seems to have an affinity to one picture in the room - the eruption of Vesuvius. Flame and shadow make up that lad's soul, no English sunshine. You would say he is an Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship. Look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and in a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother." This is the tone adopted by both parents. Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed; they avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder.


"Concede, conciliate," is their motto wherever he is concerned. The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own flesh and blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart they all rebel against the injustice. They cannot read their parents' motives; they only see the difference of treatment. The dragon's teeth are already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-branches; discord will one day be the harvest.

They are fast making him a tyrant. The younger children feel this, and rebel against the injustice. The dragon's teeth are already sown; discord will one day be the harvest.


Mark is a bonny-looking boy, the most regular-featured of the family. He is exceedingly calm; his smile is shrewd; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothest waters are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved, phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never have much joy in it for Mark. By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think all fools who seem merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark, either in literature or in life; its best effusions will sound to him mere rant and jargon. Enthusiasm will be his aversion and contempt. Mark will have no youth; while he looks juvenile and blooming, he will be already middle-aged in mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, but his soul is already thirty.

Mark is a bonny-looking boy. He is calm and shrewd; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks of temper. Life will never have much joy in it for Mark. By the time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think merry men are all fools. Mark is now fourteen, but his soul is already thirty.


Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature. Life may, or may not, be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant. He will pass through all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them. That boy is not handsome--not so handsome as either of his brothers. He is plain; there is a husk upon him, a dry shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty, then he will put it off. About that period he will make himself handsome. He will wear uncouth manners till that age, perhaps homely garments; but the chrysalis will retain the power of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such transfiguration will, in due season, take place. For a space he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous of admiration, athirst, too, for knowledge. He will want all that the world can give him, both of enjoyment and lore; he will, perhaps, take deep draughts at each fount. That thirst satisfied, what next?

Martin, the youngest of the three, has another nature. Life may, or may not, be brief for him, but it will certainly be brilliant. He will pass through all its illusions, half believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them. The boy is plainer than his brothers; but at near twenty he will become handsome. For a space he will be a vain puppy, eager for pleasure and admiration, but also thirsty for knowledge. And what next?


I know not. Martin might be a remarkable man. Whether he will or not, the seer is powerless to predict: on that subject there has been no open vision.
Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate: there is as much mental power in those six young heads, as much originality, as much activity and vigour of brain, as--divided amongst half a dozen commonplace broods--would give to each rather more than an average amount of sense and capacity. Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race. Yorkshire has such families here and there amongst her hills and wolds--peculiar, racy, vigorous; of good blood and strong brain; turbulent somewhat in the pride of their strength, and intractable in the force of their native powers; wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility, but sound, spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the steppe.
A low tap is heard at the parlour door; the boys have been making such a noise over their game, and little Jessy, besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her father--who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical little daughter some of the best--that the ring at the outer door was not observed.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously constrained and solemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates itself to a funereal dreariness of tone, though the subject it is exercised upon be but to give orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing--"come in!" And in came Robert Moore.
Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his abstemiousness (for the case of spirit decanters is never ordered up when he pays an evening visit), has so far recommended him to Mrs. Yorke that she has not yet made him the subject of private animadversions with her husband; she has not yet found out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing--discoveries which she made at an early date after marriage concerning most of her husband's bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board accordingly; which part of her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and sensible as well as its harsh side.

I know not.
Altogether, there is much mental power in those six young Yorke heads, much originality and vigour of brain. Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of them. Yorkshire has such families here and there - peculiar, racy, strong and clever; somewhat turbulent and proud, wanting polish, but sound and spirited.
A low tap is heard at the parlour door.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in her funereal tone. And in comes Robert Moore.
Moore's habitual gravity has recommended him to Mrs. Yorke. She has not yet tried to stop her husband from seeing him; she has not yet found out that Moore is a wolf in sheep's clothing - a discovery which she made soon after marriage about most of her husband's bachelor friends, excluding them from her house accordingly.


"Well, is it you?" she says to Mr. Moore, as he comes up to her and gives his hand. "What are you roving about at this time of night for? You should be at home."
"Can a single man be said to have a home, madam?" he asks.
"Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conventional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises it as little, and whose plain speaking on all occasions is carried to a point calculated, sometimes, to awaken admiration, but oftener alarm--"pooh! you need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pray, does not your sister make a home for you?"

"Well, is it you?" she says to Mr. Moore. "What are you roving about at this time of night for? You should be at home."
"Can a single man be said to have a home, madam?" he asks.
"Pooh!" says Mrs. Yorke. "You need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pray, does not your sister make a home for you?"


"Not she," joined in Mr. Yorke. "Hortense is an honest lass. But when I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters, all as decent and proper as she is; but you see, Hesther, for all that it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."
"And sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense. "He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment" (here she pointed to her children). "Who would burden themselves with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help it? It is not only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, but they are all to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life. Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters, and look twice before you leap."
"I am not tempted now, at any rate. I think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage."

"When I was Robert's age I had five or six sisters," said Mr. Yorke, "but it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife."
"And sorely he has repented marrying me," added Mrs. Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against matrimony, even at her own expense. "He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his punishment" (here she pointed to her children). "Who would burden themselves with such great, rough lads as those, if they could help it? Young sir, when you feel tempted to marry, look twice before you leap."
"I am not tempted now, at any rate. I think these are not times for marrying."


A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain Mrs. Yorke's approbation. She nodded and groaned acquiescence; but in a minute she said, "I make little account of the wisdom of a Solomon of your age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit down, sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standing?"
This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair. He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which were very promptly held out to receive her.
"You talk of marrying him," said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "and he is married now, or as good. He promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash. Didn't he, father?" (These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; their mother would allow no such "namby-pamby.")

Mrs. Yorke nodded in approval; but she said, "That wisdom will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Sit down, sir."
He had no sooner obeyed than little Jessy jumped from her father's knee and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which were promptly held out to receive her.
"He is married now, or as good," said she to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, "for he promised that I should be his wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new frock. Didn't he, father?"


"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness. But make him say it over again now, Jessy. Such as he are only false loons."
"He is not false. He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest confidence in his faith.
"Bonny!" cried Mr. Yorke. "That's the reason that he should be, and proof that he is, a scoundrel."
"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," here interposed a quiet voice from behind the father's chair. "If he was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."

"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness. He is false."
"He is not false. He is too bonny to be false," said Jessy, looking up confidently at her tall sweetheart.
"Bonny!" cried Mr. Yorke. "That's the proof that he's a scoundrel."
"But he looks too sorrowful to be false," interposed Rose quietly. "If he was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."


"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose," remarked Mr. Yorke.
"He's not sentimental," said Rose.
Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling at the same time.
"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"
"Because I heard a lady say you were not."

"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Rose," remarked Mr. Yorke.
"He's not sentimental," said Rose.
Mr. Moore turned to her, surprised and smiling.
"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"
"Because I heard a lady say you were not."


"Voil, qui devient intressant!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke, hitching his chair nearer the fire. "A lady! That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is.--Rosy, whisper the name low to your father. Don't let _him_ hear."
"Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here interrupted Mrs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, "nor Jessy either. It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of their elders."

"A lady!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is. Rosy, whisper the name to your father."
"Rose, don't be forward," interrupted Mrs. Yorke, "nor Jessy either. All children, especially girls, should be silent in the presence of their elders."


"Why have we tongues, then?" asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that seemed to say she should take that maxim in and think it over at her leisure. After two minutes' grave deliberation, she asked, "And why especially girls, mother?"
"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because discretion and reserve are a girl's best wisdom."
"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you say is excellent--it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister's observations; but really it is not applicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle; it does me good."
"Does it not?" asked Jessy. "More good than if the rough lads came round you.--You call them rough, mother, yourself."

"Why have we tongues, then?" asked Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with grave deliberation, before asking, "And why especially girls, mother?"
"Firstly, because I say so; and secondly, because reserve is a girl's best wisdom."
"My dear madam," observed Moore, "what you say is excellent; but really it does not apply to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk. I like their prattle; it does me good."
"Does it not?" asked Jessy. "More good than the rough lads.


"Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good. I have rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet."
"There are plenty of people," continued she, "who take notice of the boys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and never Rose and me. Mr. Moore is _our_ friend, and we'll keep him.--But mind, Rose, he's not so much your friend as he is mine. He is my _particular acquaintance_; remember that!" And she held up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.

There are plenty of people who take notice of the boys. When gentlemen come here to dine, it is always the boys that are talked to, and never Rose and me. Mr. Moore is our friend. But mind, Rose, he's not so much your friend as he is mine. Remember that!" And she held up her small hand with a warning gesture.


Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand. Her will daily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy. She was guided, overruled by Jessy in a thousand things. On all occasions of show and pleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas, when the disagreeables of life--its work and privations--were in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her sister's. Jessy had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, she decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there _was_ a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.
"Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental," urged Mr. Moore.

Rose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that small hand. Her will daily bent itself to that of the impetuous little Jessy. On pleasant occasions Jessy took the lead, and Rose fell quietly into the background; whereas in the difficulties of life, Rose took her sister's share upon her, as well as her own. Jessy had already decided that when she married, Rose, an old maid, would live with her, look after her children and keep her house. Jessy possessed charm; while Rose had a fine, generous, true soul, but charm she had not.
"Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental," urged Mr. Moore.


Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt. She answered briefly, "I can't. I don't know her name."
"Describe her to me. What was she like? Where did you see her?"
"When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson's, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you."
"Did you know none of them?"
"Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes."

"I don't know her name."
"What was she like? Where did you see her?"
"When Jessy and I went to spend the day with Kate and Susan Pearson, the Misses Sykes were sitting in Mrs. Pearson's drawing-room talking about you."


"Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?"
"Some of them were. They called you a misanthrope. I remember the word. I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means a man-hater."
"What besides?"
"Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."

"Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?"
"Some of them called you a misanthrope. I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means a man-hater. And Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy."


"Better!" cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. "Oh, excellent! Hannah! that's the one with the red hair--a fine girl, but half-witted."
"She has wit enough for me, it appears," said Moore. "A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on."
"Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle."

"Better!" cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. "Oh, excellent! Hannah's a fine girl, but half-witted."
"A solemn puppy, indeed!" said Moore. "Well, Rose, go on."
"Miss Pearson said you were affected, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked like a sentimental noodle."


Again Mr. Yorke laughed. Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time. "You see in what esteem you are held behind your back," said she; "yet I believe _that_ Miss Pearson would like to catch you. She set her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is."
"And who contradicted her, Rosy?" inquired Moore.
"A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church. She sits in the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her, instead of looking at my prayer-book, for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand--at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear."

Again Mr. Yorke laughed. Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time. "You see in what esteem you are held," said she; "yet I believe Miss Pearson would like to catch you."
"And who contradicted her, Rosy?" inquired Moore.
"A lady whom I don't know, though every Sunday at church she sits in the pew near the pulpit. She is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand - at least she has eyes like it, and a straight nose, that makes her face look, somehow, clear."


"And you don't know her!" exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. "That's so like Rose. Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives. I am sure she does not live all her time in this. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person's name. She means Caroline Helstone, the rector's niece. I remember all about it. Miss Helstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson.

"And you don't know her!" exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. "Mr. Moore, I often wonder what world my sister lives in. To think of her going to church every Sunday, and never asking that person's name. She means Caroline Helstone, the rector's niece. She was quite angry with Anne Pearson.