"Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser and more liberal plans, do some good, be less selfish. _Now_, Caroline, I can have a house--a home which I can truly call mine--and _now_----"
He paused, for his deep voice was checked.
"And _now_," he resumed--"now I can think of marriage, _now_ I can seek a wife."
This was no moment for her to speak. She did not speak.
"Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she forgives--will she pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes? Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?"

Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser plans, do some good, be less selfish. Now, Caroline, I can have a house - a home - and now-"
He paused.
"And now I can think of marriage; now I can seek a wife."
She did not speak.
"Will Caroline pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes? Will she let me prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, I can now love faithfully, cherish tenderly?"


His hand was in Caroline's still; a gentle pressure answered him.
"Is Caroline mine?"
"Caroline is yours."
"I will prize her. The sense of her value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life. Not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses than of her happiness and well-being."
"I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."

His hand was in Caroline's still; a gentle pressure answered him.
"Is Caroline mine?"
"Caroline is yours. I love you too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."


"Will you take faithful care of me? Faithful care! As if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard gray stone! But she _will_ care for me, in her way. These hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will bring me a solace, a charity, a purity, to which, of myself, I am a stranger."
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
"What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled to and then uneasily shrank from him.

"Faithful care! As if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard grey stone! But she will care for me, in her way. These hands will gently offer every comfort I can taste. I know she will bring me a solace, a charity, a purity, to which, of myself, I am a stranger."
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.


"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must I leave her?"
"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty. I and 'mamma' have discussed it."
"Tell me what you wish, what you would like, and I will consider if it is possible to consent. But I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake."
"She was faithful when I was false--was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly."

"Poor mamma! I am all she has. Must I leave her?"
"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty, and have discussed it with 'mamma'."
"I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake."
"She was faithful when I was false - was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly.


"What must I do? Anything but leave her."
"At my wish you never shall leave her."
"She may live very near us?"
"With us--only she will have her own rooms and servant. For this she stipulates herself."
"You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quite independent?"
"She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else."
"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."

You shall never leave her."
"She may live very near us?"
"With us - only she will have her own rooms and servant. This she stipulates herself."
"You know she has an income, that makes her quite independent?"
"She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else."
"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."


"I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion, she were something quite opposite, I should not fear her."
"Yet she will be your mother-in-law?" The speaker gave an arch little nod. Moore smiled.
"Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary. Our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our own household. I doubt not my mother-in-law will make much of me."

"I know, Cary. But in any case, Louis and I are not the type of men who fear their mothers-in-law. I suppose she will make much of me."


"That she will--in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased; it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let me interpret for her whenever she puzzles you; always believe my account of the matter, Robert."
"Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will suit--_on ne peut mieux_. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely susceptible--in our French sense of the word--and not, perhaps, always reasonable in her requirements; yet, dear, honest girl, I never painfully wounded her feelings or had a serious quarrel with her in my life."
"No; you are most generously considerate, indeed, most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside."
"A eulogium I like; it is very sweet. I am well pleased my Caroline should view me in this light."

"That she will - in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased; it is only her manner."
"I feel that she and I will suit. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely sensitive, and not, perhaps, always reasonable; yet, dear, honest girl, I never had a serious quarrel with her in my life."
"No; you are most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside.


"Mamma just thinks of you as I do."
"Not quite, I hope?"
"She does not want to marry you--don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with an air of sincerity.'"
"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?"
"She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her exceptions whom she admires--Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of late, yourself. She did not like you once; I knew that, because she would never speak of you. But, Robert----"
"Well, what now? What is the new thought?"

And Mamma thinks of you as I do."
"Not quite, I hope?"
"She does not want to marry you - don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with sincerity.'"
"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?"
"There are exceptions whom she admires - Louis and Mr. Hall, and, lately, yourself. But, Robert


"You have not seen my uncle yet?"
"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents conditionally. If I prove that I can keep a wife, I may have her; and I _can_ keep her better than he thinks--better than I choose to boast."
"If you get rich you will do good with your money, Robert?"

 - have you seen my uncle yet?"
"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents if I can prove that I can keep a wife; and I can keep her better than he thinks."
"If you get rich will you do good with your money, Robert?"


"I _will_ do good; you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about on our own hearth one day. I have seen the necessity of doing good; I have learned the downright folly of being selfish. Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell. This war _must_ ere long draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper for some years to come. There may be a brief misunderstanding between England and America, but that will not last. What would you think if, one day--perhaps ere another ten years elapse--Louis and I divide Briarfield parish betwixt us? Louis, at any rate, is certain of power and property. He will not bury his talents.

"I will; and you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes of my own. I have learned the folly of being selfish. Caroline, this war must soon draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper for some years to come. What would you think if, one day - perhaps ten years hence - Louis and I divide Briarfield parish between us? Louis is certain of power and property.


He is a benevolent fellow, and has, besides, an intellect of his own of no trifling calibre. His mind is slow but strong. It must work. It may work deliberately, but it will work well. He will be made magistrate of the district--Shirley says he shall. She would proceed impetuously and prematurely to obtain for him this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not. As usual, he will be in no haste. Ere he has been master of Fieldhead a year all the district will feel his quiet influence, and acknowledge his unassuming superiority. A magistrate is wanted; they will, in time, invest him with the office voluntarily and unreluctantly. Everybody admires his future wife, and everybody will, in time, like him.

His mind is slow but strong. He will be made magistrate of the district. Shirley would obtain this dignity for him prematurely, if he would let her, but he will not. However, once he has been master of Fieldhead a year, the district will feel his quiet influence, acknowledge his superiority, and make him magistrate voluntarily. Everybody admires his future wife, and everybody will, in time, like him.


He is of the _pte_ generally approved, _bon comme le pain_--daily bread for the most fastidious, good for the infant and the aged, nourishing for the poor, wholesome for the rich. Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, her dodges and delays, has an infatuated fondness for him. She will one day see him as universally beloved as even _she_ could wish. He will also be universally esteemed, considered, consulted, depended on--too much so. His advice will be always judicious, his help always good-natured. Ere long both will be in inconvenient request. He will have to impose restrictions. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their mill property. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages and rows of cottage-gardens----"

He will be esteemed, consulted and depended on. His advice will be always judicious, his help always good-natured. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their mill property. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages and rows of cottage-gardens-"


"Robert! And root up the copse?"
"The copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse. The beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled track shall be an even, firm, broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my mill; and my mill, Caroline--my mill shall fill its present yard."
"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere."
"I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of Briarfield."
"I like the beck a thousand times better."

"Robert! And root up the copse?"
"The copse shall be firewood within five years. The beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and on the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled track shall be a firm, broad road, bedded with the cinders from my mill; and my mill, Caroline, shall fill its present yard."
"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into Stilbro' smoke."


"I will get an Act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and parcelling it out into farms."
"Stilbro' Moor, however, defies you, thank Heaven! What can you grow in Bilberry Moss? What will flourish on Rushedge?"
"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a tenement, and Mrs. Gill shall mete them a portion till the first pay-day."
She smiled up in his face.
"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such collections as you will get! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the squire or the clothier shall give a treat once a quarter."

"I will get an Act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and parcelling it out into farms."
"Stilbro' Moor, however, defies you, thank Heaven! What can you grow in Bilberry Moss? What will flourish on Rushedge?"
"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a house, and Mrs. Gill shall feed them till the first pay-day."
She smiled.
"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the squire shall give a treat once a quarter."


She mutely offered a kiss--an offer taken unfair advantage of, to the extortion of about a hundred kisses.
"Extravagant day-dreams," said Moore, with a sigh and smile, "yet perhaps we may realize some of them. Meantime, the dew is falling. Mrs. Moore, I shall take you in."
* * * * *

She mutely offered a kiss - an offer taken unfair advantage of.
"Extravagant day-dreams," said Moore, with a sigh and smile, "yet perhaps we may realize some of them. Meantime, the dew is falling. Mrs. Moore, I shall take you in."
*


It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, but through England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet has sounded long; it now waxes louder and louder; it proclaims Salamanca won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled for a like festal purpose; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfield church--Louis Grard Moore, Esq., late of Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Cave Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead; Robert Grard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Mill, to Caroline, niece of the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., rector of Briarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by Mr. Helstone, Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the bride away. In the second instance, Mr. Hall, vicar of Nunnely, officiated. Amongst the bridal train the two most noticeable personages were the youthful bridesmen, Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.

It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, but through England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet has sounded long; it proclaims Salamanca is won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfield church - Louis Grard Moore, Esq., to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead; and Robert Grard Moore, Esq., to Caroline, niece of the Rev. Helstone, rector of Briarfield.
The first ceremony was performed by Mr. Helstone, with Mr. Yorke giving the bride away. In the second ceremony, Mr. Hall officiated. Amongst the bridal train were two youthful bridesmen, Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.


I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially at least, fulfilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow, which tradition says was once green, and lone, and wild; and there I saw the manufacturer's day-dreams embodied in substantial stone and brick and ashes--the cinder-black highway, the cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I saw a mighty mill, and a chimney ambitious as the tower of Babel. I told my old housekeeper when I came home where I had been.

I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially at least, fulfilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow, which tradition says was once green, and lone, and wild; and there I saw the manufacturer's day-dreams embodied in substantial stone and brick - the cinder highway, the cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I saw a mighty mill, and a chimney ambitious as the tower of Babel. When I came home I told my old housekeeper where I had been.


"Ay," said she, "this world has queer changes. I can remember the old mill being built--the very first it was in all the district; and then I can remember it being pulled down, and going with my lake-lasses [companions] to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid. The two Mr. Moores made a great stir about it. They were there, and a deal of fine folk besides, and both their ladies; very bonny and grand they looked. But Mrs. Louis was the grandest; she always wore such handsome dresses. Mrs. Robert was quieter like. Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked. She had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look; but she had een that pierced a body through. There is no such ladies nowadays."
"What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"

"Ay," said she, "I can remember the old mill being built - the very first in all the district; and I can remember it being pulled down, and going to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid. The two Mr. Moores made a great stir about it. They were there, and both their ladies; very bonny and grand they looked. But Mrs. Louis was the grandest; she always wore such handsome dresses. Mrs. Robert was quieter like. Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked. She had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look; but she had eyes that pierced a body through."
"What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"


"Different to what it is now; but I can tell of it clean different again, when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty years syne, my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairish [fairy] in Fieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen on this countryside (though they've been heard within these forty years). A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oak trees and nut trees. It is altered now."
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!

"Different to now; but I could tell of when there was neither mill, nor cottage, nor hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty years since, of my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairy in Fieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairy that ever was seen in this area. A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oaks and nut trees. It is altered now."
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his wisdom to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!


Not on combat bent, nor of foemen in search, was this priest-led and woman-officered company; yet their music played martial tunes, and, to judge by the eyes and carriage of some--Miss Keeldar, for instance--these sounds awoke, if not a martial, yet a longing spirit. Old Helstone, turning by chance, looked into her face; and he laughed, and she laughed at him.
"There is no battle in prospect," he said; "our country does not want us to fight for it. No foe or tyrant is questioning or threatening our liberty. There is nothing to be done. We are only taking a walk. Keep your hand on the reins, captain, and slack the fire of that spirit. It is not wanted, the more's the pity."

The bands played martial tunes, and in some - Miss Keeldar, for instance - these sounds awoke, if not a martial, yet a longing spirit. Old Helstone, turning, looked at her; and they both laughed.
"There is no battle in prospect," he said; "No foe is threatening our liberty. We are only taking a walk. Keep your hand on the reins, captain, and slack the fire of that spirit."


"Take your own advice, doctor," was Shirley's response. To Caroline she murmured, "I'll borrow of imagination what reality will not give me. We are not soldiers--bloodshed is not my desire--or if we are, we are soldiers of the Cross. Time has rolled back some hundreds of years, and we are bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine. But no; that is too visionary. I need a sterner dream. We are Lowlanders of Scotland, following a Covenanting captain up into the hills to hold a meeting out of the reach of persecuting troopers. We know that battle may follow prayer; and as we believe that in the worst issue of battle heaven must be our reward, we are ready and willing to redden the peat-moss with our blood. That music stirs my soul; it wakens all my life; it makes my heart beat--not with its temperate daily pulse, but with a new, thrilling vigour. I almost long for danger--for a faith, a land, or at least a lover to defend."

"Take your own advice, doctor," was Shirley's response. To Caroline she murmured, "I'll borrow of imagination what reality will not give me. We are not soldiers - or if we are, we are soldiers of the Cross, bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine. But no; that is too visionary. I need a sterner dream. We are Lowlanders of Scotland, following a Covenanting captain up into the hills to pray. We know that battle may follow; and we are ready and willing to redden the peat-moss with our blood. That music stirs my soul; it makes my heart beat with a new, thrilling vigour. I almost long for danger - for a faith, a land, or at least a lover to defend."


"Look, Shirley!" interrupted Caroline. "What is that red speck above Stilbro' Brow? You have keener sight than I. Just turn your eagle eye to it."

"Look, Shirley!" interrupted Caroline. "What is that red speck above Stilbro' Brow? You have keener sight than I."


Miss Keeldar looked. "I see," she said; then added presently, "there is a line of red. They are soldiers--cavalry soldiers," she subjoined quickly. "They ride fast. There are six of them. They will pass us. No; they have turned off to the right. They saw our procession, and avoid it by making a circuit. Where are they going?"
"Perhaps they are only exercising their horses."

Miss Keeldar looked. "They are soldiers - cavalry soldiers," she said. "They ride fast. There are six of them. They will pass us. No; they have turned off to the right to avoid our procession."
"Perhaps they are only exercising their horses."


"Perhaps so. We see them no more now."
Mr. Helstone here spoke.
"We shall pass through Royd Lane, to reach Nunnely Common by a short cut," said he.
And into the straits of Royd Lane they accordingly defiled. It was very narrow--so narrow that only two could walk abreast without falling into the ditch which ran along each side. They had gained the middle of it, when excitement became obvious in the clerical commanders. Boultby's spectacles and Helstone's Rehoboam were agitated; the curates nudged each other; Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and smiled.
"What is the matter?" was the demand.

Mr. Helstone here spoke. "We shall pass through Royd Lane, to reach Nunnely Common by a short cut."
And into Royd Lane they accordingly filed. It was so narrow that only two could walk abreast. They had reached the middle of it, when excitement became obvious in the clerical commanders. The curates nudged each other; Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and smiled.
"What is the matter?" they asked.


He pointed with his staff to the end of the lane before them. Lo and behold! another, an opposition, procession was there entering, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they could now hear, by music.
"Is it our double?" asked Shirley, "our manifold wraith? Here is a card turned up."
"If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one--at least of looks," whispered Caroline, laughing.
"They shall not pass us!" cried the curates unanimously; "we'll not give way!"

He pointed to the end of the lane before them. Another procession was entering there, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they could now hear, by music.
"Is it our double?" asked Shirley.
"If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one - at least of looks," whispered Caroline, laughing.
"They shall not pass us!" cried the curates; "we'll not give way!"


"Give way!" retorted Helstone sternly, turning round; "who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about. The ladies, I know, will be firm. I can trust them. There is not a churchwoman here but will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment.--What does Miss Keeldar say?"
"She asks what is it."
"The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists, Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and turning purposely into this lane with the intention of obstructing our march and driving us back."

"Give way!" retorted Helstone sternly; "who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about. The ladies, I know, will be firm. Every churchwoman here will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment."
"Who is it?" asked Shirley.
"The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists, Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and turning purposely into this lane with the intention of obstructing our march and driving us back."


"Bad manners!" said Shirley, "and I hate bad manners. Of course, they must have a lesson."
"A lesson in politeness," suggested Mr. Hall, who was ever for peace; "not an example of rudeness."
Old Helstone moved on. Quickening his step, he marched some yards in advance of his company. He had nearly reached the other sable leaders, when he who appeared to act as the hostile commander-in-chief--a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat on his forehead--called a halt. The procession paused. He drew forth a hymn book, gave out a verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most dolorous of canticles.

"Bad manners!" said Shirley. "Of course, they must have a lesson."
"A lesson in politeness," suggested Mr. Hall; "not an example of rudeness."
Old Helstone marched on ahead of his company, quickening his step. He had nearly reached the other group, when its leader - a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat - called a halt. He drew forth a hymn book, gave out a verse, and his group struck up the most dolorous of songs.


Helstone signed to his bands. They clashed out with all the power of brass. He desired them to play "Rule, Britannia!" and ordered the children to join in vocally, which they did with enthusiastic spirit. The enemy was sung and stormed down, his psalm quelled. As far as noise went, he was conquered.

Helstone signed to his bands. They clashed out with all the power of brass. He desired them to play "Rule, Britannia!" and ordered the children to join in, which they did enthusiastically. As far as noise went, the enemy was conquered.


"Now, follow me!" exclaimed Helstone; "not at a run, but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and woman of you. Keep together. Hold on by each other's skirts, if necessary."
And he strode on with such a determined and deliberate gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his scholars and teachers, who did exactly as he told them, neither running nor faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus--the curates, too, being compelled to do the same, as they were between two fires, Helstone and Miss Keeldar, both of whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance, and were ready, the one with his cane, the other with her parasol, to rebuke the slightest breach of orders, the least independent or irregular demonstration--that the body of Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne down and pressed back, and at last forced to turn tail and leave the outlet from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them, held him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though sorely tried in wind.

"Now, follow me!" exclaimed Helstone; "not running, but at a firm, smart pace. Keep together."
And he strode on with such a determined gait, and was so well obeyed by his scholars and teachers, who marched with cool, solid impetus - even the curates - that the Dissenters were pressed back, and were at last forced to turn tail and leave the exit from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone held him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though breathless.


The fat Dissenter who had given out the hymn was left sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit merchant by trade, a leader of the Nonconformists, and, it was said, drank more water in that one afternoon than he had swallowed for a twelvemonth before. Mr. Hall had taken care of Caroline, and Caroline of him. He and Miss Ainley made their own quiet comments to each other afterwards on the incident. Miss Keeldar and Mr. Helstone shook hands heartily when they had fairly got the whole party through the lane. The curates began to exult, but Mr. Helstone presently put the curb on their innocent spirits. He remarked that they never had sense to know what to say, and had better hold their tongues; and he reminded them that the business was none of their managing.

The fat Dissenter who had given out the hymn was left sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit merchant by trade, and, it was said, drank more water in that one afternoon than he had swallowed for a twelvemonth before. Mr. Hall had taken care of Caroline, and Caroline of him. Miss Keeldar and Mr. Helstone shook hands heartily when they had got the whole party through the lane. The curates began to exult, but Mr. Helstone curbed them, saying that they had better hold their tongues; and that the business was none of their managing.


About half-past three the procession turned back, and at four once more regained the starting-place. Long lines of benches were arranged in the close-shorn fields round the school. There the children were seated, and huge baskets, covered up with white cloths, and great smoking tin vessels were brought out. Ere the distribution of good things commenced, a brief grace was pronounced by Mr. Hall and sung by the children. Their young voices sounded melodious, even touching, in the open air. Large currant buns and hot, well-sweetened tea were then administered in the proper spirit of liberality. No stinting was permitted on this day, at least; the rule for each child's allowance being that it was to have about twice as much as it could possibly eat, thus leaving a reserve to be carried home for such as age, sickness, or other impediment prevented from coming to the feast. Buns and beer circulated, meantime, amongst the musicians and church-singers; afterwards the benches were removed, and they were left to unbend their spirits in licensed play.

About half-past three the procession turned back, and at four once more regained the starting-place. Long lines of benches were arranged in the fields round the school. There the children were seated, and huge baskets of food were brought out. A brief grace was pronounced by Mr. Hall. Large currant buns and hot, sweet tea were then handed out liberally; each child being allowed to have about twice as much as it could possibly eat, thus leaving some to be carried home. Afterwards the benches were removed, and they were left to play.


A bell summoned the teachers, patrons, and patronesses to the schoolroom. Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and many other ladies were already there, glancing over the arrangement of their separate trays and tables. Most of the female servants of the neighbourhood, together with the clerks', the singers', and the musicians' wives, had been pressed into the service of the day as waiters. Each vied with the other in smartness and daintiness of dress, and many handsome forms were seen amongst the younger ones. About half a score were cutting bread and butter, another half-score supplying hot water, brought from the coppers of the rector's kitchen. The profusion of flowers and evergreens decorating the white walls, the show of silver teapots and bright porcelain on the tables, the active figures, blithe faces, gay dresses flitting about everywhere, formed altogether a refreshing and lively spectacle. Everybody talked, not very loudly, but merrily, and the canary birds sang shrill in their high-hung cages.

A bell summoned the teachers and patrons to the schoolroom. Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and other ladies were already there, checking the arrangement of the tables. Most of the female servants of the neighbourhood were busy cutting bread and butter and bringing hot water from the rector's kitchen. The profusion of flowers decorating the white walls, the show of silver teapots and bright porcelain on the tables, the blithe faces and gay dresses, formed altogether a refreshing and lively spectacle. Everybody talked merrily, and the canary birds sang shrill in their high-hung cages.


Caroline, as the rector's niece, took her place at one of the three first tables; Mrs. Boultby and Margaret Hall officiated at the others. At these tables the _lite_ of the company were to be entertained, strict rules of equality not being more in fashion at Briarfield than elsewhere. Miss Helstone removed her bonnet and scarf, that she might be less oppressed with the heat. Her long curls, falling on her neck, served almost in place of a veil; and for the rest, her muslin dress was fashioned modestly as a nun's robe, enabling her thus to dispense with the encumbrance of a shawl.

Caroline, as the rector's niece, took her place at one of the three first tables; Mrs. Boultby and Margaret Hall officiated at the others. Here the lite of the company were to be entertained. Miss Helstone removed her bonnet and scarf; her long curls fell on her neck, almost like a veil; and her muslin dress was as modest as a nun's robe.


The room was filling. Mr. Hall had taken his post beside Caroline, who now, as she rearranged the cups and spoons before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks on the events of the day. He looked a little grave about what had taken place in Royd Lane, and she tried to smile him out of his seriousness. Miss Keeldar sat near--for a wonder, neither laughing nor talking; on the contrary, very still, and gazing round her vigilantly. She seemed afraid lest some intruder should take a seat she apparently wished to reserve next her own. Ever and anon she spread her satin dress over an undue portion of the bench, or laid her gloves or her embroidered handkerchief upon it. Caroline noticed this _mange_ at last, and asked her what friend she expected. Shirley bent towards her, almost touched her ear with her rosy lips, and whispered with a musical softness that often characterized her tones when what she said tended even remotely to stir some sweet secret source of feeling in her heart, "I expect Mr. Moore. I saw him last night, and I made him promise to come with his sister, and to sit at our table. He won't fail me, I feel certain; but I apprehend his coming too late, and being separated from us.

The room was filling. Mr. Hall took his post beside Caroline. He looked a little grave about what had taken place in Royd Lane, and she tried to smile him out of his seriousness.
Miss Keeldar sat very still, gazing round her vigilantly. She seemed afraid lest some intruder should take a seat she apparently wished to reserve next to her own, for she spread her satin dress over a portion of the bench, or laid her gloves or handkerchief upon it. When Caroline asked her who she expected, Shirley whispered softly:
"I expect Mr. Moore. I saw him last night, and I made him promise to come with his sister, and to sit at our table. He won't fail me, I feel certain; but I fear he will come too late, and be separated from us.


Here is a fresh batch arriving; every place will be taken. Provoking!"
In fact, Mr. Wynne the magistrate, his wife, his son, and his two daughters now entered in high state. They were Briarfield gentry. Of course their place was at the first table, and being conducted thither, they filled up the whole remaining space. For Miss Keeldar's comfort, Mr. Sam Wynne inducted himself into the very vacancy she had kept for Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, her gloves, and her handkerchief. Mr. Sam was one of the objects of her aversion, and the more so because he showed serious symptoms of an aim at her hand. The old gentleman, too, had publicly declared that the Fieldhead estate and the De Walden estate were delightfully _contagious_--a malapropism which rumour had not failed to repeat to Shirley.

Here is a fresh batch arriving; every place will be taken. Provoking!"
Mr. Wynne the magistrate and his family now entered in high state. They were Briarfield gentry. Of course their place was at the first table; the magistrate's son, Mr. Sam Wynne, sat in the very vacancy Shirley had kept for Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, gloves, and handkerchief. She was averse to Mr. Sam, especially because he showed serious symptoms of aiming at her hand. His father, too, had publicly declared that the Fieldhead estate and the Wynne estate were delightfully contagious - a malapropism which rumour had not failed to repeat to Shirley.


Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, "I expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat and her cheek yet glowed with it, when a note from the organ pealed above the confused hum of the place. Dr. Boultby, Mr. Helstone, and Mr. Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was sung to the accompaniment of the music; and then tea began. She was kept too busy with her office for a while to have leisure for looking round, but the last cup being filled, she threw a restless glance over the room. There were some ladies and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated with seats. Amidst a group she recognized her spinster friend, Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had tempted, or some urgent friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude for one hour of social enjoyment. Miss Mann looked tired of standing; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair. Caroline knew well that _chapeau en satin jaune_; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated and froward-looking face under it; she knew that _robe de soie noire_, she knew even that _schall gris de lin_; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her--to give her one embrace for her own sake and two for her brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps--for the impulse was very strong--she would have run across the room and actually saluted her; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her whispered, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."
And when she _could_ look up she did, and there was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look--looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped by a pencil of keen lightning.

Caroline's ears still rung with that thrilling whisper, "I expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat with it, when a note from the organ pealed out. The clergymen rose, so did everyone else, and grace was sung; then tea began. She was kept too busy to have leisure for looking round, but when the last cup was filled, she glanced over the room. There were some ladies and gentlemen standing about. She recognized her spinster friend, Miss Mann, who looked tired; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair.
Caroline knew well that yellow hat; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated face under it; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her, for her own sake and her brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her murmured, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."
There was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look - looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she dared not take a second glance; for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness.


He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley, irritated by some unwelcome attentions from Sam Wynne, and by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves and handkerchief--and probably, also, by Moore's want of punctuality--was by no means in good humour. She first shrugged her shoulders at him, and then she said a bitter word or two about his "insupportable tardiness." Moore neither apologized nor retorted. He stood near her quietly, as if waiting to see whether she would recover her temper; which she did in little more than three minutes, indicating the change by offering him her hand. Moore took it with a smile, half-corrective, half-grateful. The slightest possible shake of the head delicately marked the former quality; it is probable a gentle pressure indicated the latter.

He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley, irritated by Sam Wynne's attentions, and by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves and handkerchief - and probably, also, by Moore's lateness - was by no means in good humour. She shrugged her shoulders, and said a bitter word or two about his "insupportable tardiness."
Moore neither apologized nor retorted. He stood near her quietly, as if waiting to see whether she would recover her temper; which she did in three minutes, and offered him her hand. Moore took it with a smile.


"You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore," said Shirley, also smiling. "You see there is not an inch of room for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go! John Sykes will be your _vis--vis_, and you will sit with your back towards us."
Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was. He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen in his own placeless predicament; but still he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he returned, observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.

"You may sit where you can, Mr. Moore," said Shirley, also smiling. "There is not an inch of room for you here; but I see plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go!"
Moore, however, preferred lingering where he was. He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing to exchange greetings with other gentlemen; but he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.


Meantime poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable. His fair neighbour, judging from her movements, appeared in a mood the most unquiet and unaccommodating. She would not sit still two seconds. She was hot; she fanned herself; complained of want of air and space. She remarked that, in her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought to leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she expected to faint if the present state of things continued. Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open air; just the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged. In short, his post became untenable; and having swallowed his quantum of tea, he judged it expedient to evacuate.

Meantime poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable. His fair neighbour would not sit still for two seconds. She was hot; she fanned herself; she complained of lack of air and space. She remarked that, in her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought to leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she expected to faint. Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open air; just the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged. In short, his place became untenable, and he judged it best to quit.


Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite at the other extremity of the room, deep in conference with Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Timothy Ramsden, Esq., happened to be nearer; and feeling himself tired of standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat. Shirley's expedients did not fail her. A sweep of her scarf upset her teacup: its contents were shared between the bench and her own satin dress. Of course, it became necessary to call a waiter to remedy the mischief. Mr. Ramsden, a stout, puffy gentleman, as large in person as he was in property, held aloof from the consequent commotion. Shirley, usually almost culpably indifferent to slight accidents affecting dress, etc., now made a commotion that might have become the most delicate and nervous of her sex. Mr. Ramsden opened his mouth, withdrew slowly, and, as Miss Keeldar again intimated her intention to "give way" and swoon on the spot, he turned on his heel, and beat a heavy retreat.

Moore was at the other end of the room. A large corn-factor, Timothy Ramsden, Esq., was nearer, and advanced to fill the vacant seat. Shirley's expedients did not fail her. A sweep of her scarf upset her teacup over the bench and her own satin dress. A waiter had to be called. Shirley, usually indifferent to accidents affecting dress, made a commotion befitting the most delicate and nervous of her sex. Mr. Ramsden, a large, puffy gentleman, opened his mouth, and withdrew, beating a heavy retreat.


Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatical-looking countenance, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, that he found a climate there calculated to agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe--the whole turmoil, in short--to one side, he installed himself where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her features altered their lines; the raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became straight again; wilfulness and roguery gave place to other expressions; and all the angular movements with which she had vexed the soul of Sam Wynne were conjured to rest as by a charm. Still no gracious glance was cast on Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with being the cause of depriving her of the esteem of Mr. Ramsden and the invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.
"Wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world," she averred. "I have always been accustomed to treat both with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to you, how they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my neighbours. So to-morrow I must make a pilgrimage to Royd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise the grain; and next day I must call at De Walden--where I hate to go--and carry in my reticule half an oatcake to give to Mr. Sam's favourite pointers."

Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatic face, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, which would agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting aside the waiters, the napkins, and the satin robe, he sat next to Shirley.
She subsided. The wilfulness and roguery left her face; but no gracious glance was cast on Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with depriving her of the company of Mr. Ramsden and Mr. Samuel Wynne.
"I wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world," she said. "Owing to you, how ill they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my neighbours."


"You know the surest path to the heart of each swain, I doubt not," said Moore quietly. He looked very content to have at last secured his present place; but he made no fine speech expressive of gratification, and offered no apology for the trouble he had given. His phlegm became him wonderfully. It made him look handsomer, he was so composed; it made his vicinage pleasant, it was so peace-restoring. You would not have thought, to look at him, that he was a poor, struggling man seated beside a rich woman; the calm of equality stilled his aspect; perhaps that calm, too, reigned in his soul. Now and then, from the way in which he looked down on Miss Keeldar as he addressed her, you would have fancied his station towered above hers as much as his stature did. Almost stern lights sometimes crossed his brow and gleamed in his eyes. Their conversation had become animated, though it was confined to a low key; she was urging him with questions--evidently he refused to her curiosity all the gratification it demanded. She sought his eye once with hers. You read, in its soft yet eager expression, that it solicited clearer replies.

"You know the surest path to the heart of each, I doubt not," said Moore quietly. He looked very content to have at last secured his place; but he offered no apology for the trouble he had given. His composure made him look handsomer. Now and then, from the way in which he addressed Miss Keeldar, you would have fancied his station towered above hers as much as his stature did. Stern lights sometimes gleamed in his eyes.
Their conversation had become animated, though it was in a low voice; she was urging him with questions which he evidently refused to answer. At her soft yet eager enquiry,


Moore smiled pleasantly, but his lips continued sealed. Then she was piqued, and turned away; but he recalled her attention in two minutes. He seemed making promises, which he soothed her into accepting in lieu of information.
It appeared that the heat of the room did not suit Miss Helstone. She grew paler and paler as the process of tea-making was protracted. The moment thanks were returned she quitted the table, and hastened to follow her cousin Hortense, who, with Miss Mann, had already sought the open air. Robert Moore had risen when she did--perhaps he meant to speak to her; but there was yet a parting word to exchange with Miss Keeldar, and while it was being uttered Caroline had vanished.
Hortense received her former pupil with a demeanour of more dignity than warmth. She had been seriously offended by Mr. Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered Caroline to blame in obeying her uncle too literally.

 Moore smiled, but his lips continued sealed. Then she was piqued, and turned away; but he recalled her attention. He seemed to be making promises which soothed her.
It appeared that the heat of the room did not suit Miss Helstone. She grew paler and paler during the process of tea-making. The moment she could, she left the table, and hastened to follow her cousin Hortense and Miss Mann, who had already sought the open air. Robert Moore rose when she did - perhaps he meant to speak to her; but there was still a word to exchange with Miss Keeldar, and while it was being uttered Caroline had vanished.
Hortense received her former pupil with more dignity than warmth. She had been seriously offended by Mr. Helstone's ban, and considered Caroline to blame in obeying her uncle too literally.


"You are a very great stranger," she said austerely, as her pupil held and pressed her hand. The pupil knew her too well to remonstrate or complain of coldness. She let the punctilious whim pass, sure that her natural _bont_ (I use this French word because it expresses just what I mean--neither goodness nor good-nature, but something between the two) would presently get the upper hand. It did. Hortense had no sooner examined her face well, and observed the change its somewhat wasted features betrayed, than her mien softened. Kissing her on both cheeks, she asked anxiously after her health. Caroline answered gaily. It would, however, have been her lot to undergo a long cross-examination, followed by an endless lecture on this head, had not Miss Mann called off the attention of the questioner by requesting to be conducted home. The poor invalid was already fatigued. Her weariness made her cross--too cross almost to speak to Caroline; and besides, that young person's white dress and lively look were displeasing in the eyes of Miss Mann.

"You are a very great stranger," she said austerely. The pupil did not remonstrate, sure that Hortense's natural good-nature would soon prevail. It did: when Hortense had examined her face, and observed the change in it, her manner softened. Kissing her on both cheeks, she asked anxiously after her health. Caroline answered gaily; but was spared a long cross-examination when Miss Mann asked to be taken home. The poor invalid was already fatigued. Her weariness made her almost too cross to speak to Caroline;


The everyday garb of brown stuff or gray gingham, and the everyday air of melancholy, suited the solitary spinster better; she would hardly know her young friend to-night, and quitted her with a cool nod. Hortense having promised to accompany her home, they departed together.
Caroline now looked round for Shirley. She saw the rainbow scarf and purple dress in the centre of a throng of ladies, all well known to herself, but all of the order whom she systematically avoided whenever avoidance was possible. Shyer at some moments than at others, she felt just now no courage at all to join this company. She could not, however, stand alone where all others went in pairs or parties; so she approached a group of her own scholars, great girls, or rather young women, who were standing watching some hundreds of the younger children playing at blind-man's buff.

 she gave her a cool nod, and departed with Hortense.
Caroline looked round for Shirley. She saw the rainbow scarf and purple dress in the centre of a throng of ladies, all ones whom she herself avoided whenever possible. She felt no courage at all to join this company. She could not stand alone, however; so she approached a group of her own scholars, great girls, or rather young women, who were standing watching the younger children playing blind-man's buff.


Miss Helstone knew these girls liked her, yet she was shy even with them out of school. They were not more in awe of her than she of them. She drew near them now, rather to find protection in their company than to patronize them with her presence. By some instinct they knew her weakness, and with natural politeness they respected it. Her knowledge commanded their esteem when she taught them; her gentleness attracted their regard; and because she was what they considered wise and good when _on_ duty, they kindly overlooked her evident timidity when off. They did not take advantage of it. Peasant girls as they were, they had too much of our own English sensibility to be guilty of the coarse error. They stood round her still, civil, friendly, receiving her slight smiles and rather hurried efforts to converse with a good feeling and good breeding--the last quality being the result of the first--which soon set her at her ease.
Mr. Sam Wynne coming up with great haste, to insist on the elder girls joining in the game as well as the younger ones, Caroline was again left alone. She was meditating a quiet retreat to the house, when Shirley, perceiving from afar her isolation, hastened to her side.

Miss Helstone knew these girls liked her, yet she was shy even with them. She drew near them rather to find protection in their company than to patronize them with her presence. By some instinct they knew her weakness, and with natural politeness they respected it. Her knowledge commanded their esteem when she taught them; her gentleness made them like her, and so they kindly overlooked her timidity when off duty. They did not take advantage of it, but were civil and friendly, receiving her hurried efforts to converse with a good feeling and good breeding, which soon set her at her ease.
On Mr. Sam Wynne hurrying over to insist on the elder girls joining in the game, Caroline was again left alone. She was meditating a quiet retreat to the house, when Shirley came to her side.


"Let us go to the top of the fields," she said. "I know you don't like crowds, Caroline."
"But it will be depriving you of a pleasure, Shirley, to take you from all these fine people, who court your society so assiduously, and to whom you can, without art or effort, make yourself so pleasant."

"Let us go to the top of the fields," she said. "I know you don't like crowds, Caroline."
"But it will be depriving you of a pleasure, Shirley, to take you away from all these fine people, who court your society, and to whom you can, without effort, make yourself so pleasant."


"Not quite without effort; I am already tired of the exertion. It is but insipid, barren work, talking and laughing with the good gentlefolks of Briarfield. I have been looking out for your white dress for the last ten minutes. I like to watch those I love in a crowd, and to compare them with others. I have thus compared you. You resemble none of the rest, Lina. There are some prettier faces than yours here. You are not a model beauty like Harriet Sykes, for instance--beside her your person appears almost insignificant--but you look agreeable, you look reflective, you look what I call interesting."
"Hush, Shirley! you flatter me."

"Not quite without effort; I am already tired of the exertion. It is insipid work, talking and laughing with the good gentlefolks of Briarfield. I have been looking for your white dress for the last ten minutes. You resemble none of the rest, Lina. There are some prettier faces than yours here; Harriet Sykes, for instance; but you look agreeable, you look reflective, you look what I call interesting."
"Hush, Shirley! you flatter me."


"I don't wonder that your scholars like you."
"Nonsense, Shirley! Talk of something else."
"We will talk of Moore, then, and we will watch him. I see him even now."
"Where?" And as Caroline asked the question she looked not over the fields, but into Miss Keeldar's eyes, as was her wont whenever Shirley mentioned any object she descried afar. Her friend had quicker vision than herself, and Caroline seemed to think that the secret of her eagle acuteness might be read in her dark gray irides, or rather, perhaps, she only sought guidance by the direction of those discriminating and brilliant spheres.


"There is Moore," said Shirley, pointing right across the wide field where a thousand children were playing, and now nearly a thousand adult spectators walking about. "There--can you miss the tall stature and straight port? He looks amidst the set that surround him like Eliab amongst humbler shepherds--like Saul in a war-council; and a war-council it is, if I am not mistaken."
"Why so, Shirley?" asked Caroline, whose eye had at last caught the object it sought. "Robert is just now speaking to my uncle, and they are shaking hands. They are then reconciled."

"There is Moore," said Shirley, pointing right across the wide field where a thousand children were playing, and a thousand adult spectators walking about. "There - can you miss the tall stature and straight figure? He looks like Saul in a war-council; and a war-council it is, if I am not mistaken."
"Why so, Shirley?" asked Caroline, whose eye had at last found him. "Robert is shaking hands with my uncle. They are then reconciled."


"Reconciled not without good reason, depend on it--making common cause against some common foe. And why, think you, are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and Armitage and Ramsden, gathered in such a close circle round them? And why is Malone beckoned to join them? Where _he_ is summoned, be sure a strong arm is needed."
Shirley, as she watched, grew restless; her eyes flashed.
"They won't trust me," she said. "That is always the way when it comes to the point."
"What about?"

"Not without good reason, depend on it - making common cause against some foe. And why, think you, are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and Armitage and Ramsden, gathered in such a close circle round them? And why is Malone beckoned to join them? Where he is summoned, be sure a strong arm is needed." Shirley grew restless; her eyes flashed.
"They won't trust me," she said. "That is always the way.


"Cannot you feel? There is some mystery afloat; some event is expected; some preparation is to be made, I am certain. I saw it all in Mr. Moore's manner this evening. He was excited, yet hard."
"Hard to _you_, Shirley?"
"Yes, to _me_. He often is hard to me. We seldom converse _tte--tte_ but I am made to feel that the basis of his character is not of eider down."
"Yet he seemed to talk to you softly."

There is some mystery afloat; some event is expected; some preparation is to be made, I am certain. I saw it in Mr. Moore's manner this evening. He was excited, yet hard."
"Hard to you, Shirley?"
"Yes. He often is hard to me. I am made to feel that the basis of his character is not of eiderdown."
"Yet he seemed to talk to you softly."


"Did he not? Very gentle tones and quiet manner. Yet the man is peremptory and secret: his secrecy vexes me."
"Yes, Robert is secret."
"Which he has scarcely a right to be with me, especially as he commenced by giving me his confidence. Having done nothing to forfeit that confidence, it ought not to be withdrawn; but I suppose I am not considered iron-souled enough to be trusted in a crisis."
"He fears, probably, to occasion you uneasiness."

"Did he not? Very gentle tones and quiet manner. Yet the man is peremptory and secret: his secrecy vexes me. He scarcely has a right to be secret with me, as he commenced by giving me his confidence. It ought not to be withdrawn; but I suppose I am not considered iron-souled enough to be trusted in a crisis."
"He fears, probably, to make you uneasy."


"An unnecessary precaution. I am of elastic materials, not soon crushed. He ought to know that. But the man is proud. He has his faults, say what you will, Lina. Observe how engaged that group appear. They do not know we are watching them."
"If we keep on the alert, Shirley, we shall perhaps find the clue to their secret."

"I am not soon crushed. He ought to know that. But the man is proud. He has his faults, say what you will, Lina. Observe how engaged that group appear.


"There will be some unusual movements ere long--perhaps to-morrow, possibly to-night. But my eyes and ears are wide open. Mr. Moore, you shall be under surveillance. Be you vigilant also, Lina."
"I will. Robert is going; I saw him turn. I believe he noticed us. They are shaking hands."
"Shaking hands, with emphasis," added Shirley, "as if they were ratifying some solemn league and covenant."
They saw Robert quit the group, pass through a gate, and disappear.

There will be some unusual movements before long. But my eyes and ears are open. Mr. Moore, you shall be watched."
"Robert is going; I believe he noticed us. They are shaking hands."
They saw Robert quit the group, pass through a gate, and disappear.


"And he has not bid us good-bye," murmured Caroline.
Scarcely had the words escaped her lips when she tried by a smile to deny the confession of disappointment they seemed to imply. An unbidden suffusion for one moment both softened and brightened her eyes.
"Oh, that is soon remedied!" exclaimed Shirley: "we'll _make_ him bid us good-bye."
"_Make_ him! That is not the same thing," was the answer.
"It _shall_ be the same thing."
"But he is gone; you can't overtake him."

"And he has not bid us good-bye," murmured Caroline. At once she tried to smile to hide her disappointment.
"Oh, that is soon remedied!" exclaimed Shirley: "we'll make him bid us good-bye.


"I know a shorter way than that he has taken. We will intercept him."
"But, Shirley, I would rather not go."

I know a short cut. We will intercept him."
"But, Shirley, I would rather not go."


Caroline said this as Miss Keeldar seized her arm and hurried her down the fields. It was vain to contend. Nothing was so wilful as Shirley when she took a whim into her head. Caroline found herself out of sight of the crowd almost before she was aware, and ushered into a narrow shady spot, embowered above with hawthorns, and enamelled under foot with daisies. She took no notice of the evening sun chequering the turf, nor was she sensible of the pure incense exhaling at this hour from tree and plant; she only heard the wicket opening at one end, and knew Robert was approaching. The long sprays of the hawthorns, shooting out before them, served as a screen. They saw him before he observed them. At a glance Caroline perceived that his social hilarity was gone; he had left it behind him in the joy-echoing fields round the school. What remained now was his dark, quiet, business countenance. As Shirley had said, a certain hardness characterized his air, while his eye was excited, but austere.

Miss Keeldar seized her arm and hurried her down the fields. It was vain to argue. Nothing was so wilful as Shirley when she took a whim into her head. Caroline found herself ushered into a narrow shady spot, embowered above with hawthorns, and enamelled underfoot with daisies. She heard the wicket-gate opening, and knew Robert was approaching. The long sprays of the hawthorns screened them. They saw him before he observed them.
At a glance Caroline perceived that his social gaiety was gone; he wore his dark, quiet, business face. As Shirley had said, there was a certain hardness in his air.


So much the worse timed was the present freak of Shirley's. If he had looked disposed for holiday mirth, it would not have mattered much; but now----
"I told you not to come," said Caroline, somewhat bitterly, to her friend. She seemed truly perturbed. To be intruded on Robert thus, against her will and his expectation, and when he evidently would rather not be delayed, keenly annoyed her. It did not annoy Miss Keeldar in the least. She stepped forward and faced her tenant, barring his way. "You omitted to bid us good-bye," she said.

So much the worse timed was the present freak of Shirley's.
"I told you not to come," said Caroline, somewhat bitterly, to her friend. To intrude on Robert thus, when he evidently would rather not be delayed, keenly annoyed her. It did not annoy Miss Keeldar in the least. She stepped forward and faced her tenant, barring his way.
"You omitted to bid us good-bye," she said.


"Omitted to bid you good-bye! Where did you come from? Are you fairies? I left two like you, one in purple and one in white, standing at the top of a bank, four fields off, but a minute ago."
"You left us there and find us here. We have been watching you, and shall watch you still. You must be questioned one day, but not now. At present all you have to do is to say good-night, and then pass."
Moore glanced from one to the other without unbending his aspect. "Days of fte have their privileges, and so have days of hazard," observed he gravely.

"Where did you come from? Are you fairies? I left two like you standing at the top of a bank, four fields off, only a minute ago."
"You left us there and find us here. We have been watching you, and shall watch you still. You must be questioned one day, but not now. At present all you have to do is to say good-night, and then pass."


"Come, don't moralize. Say good-night, and pass," urged Shirley.
"Must I say good-night to you, Miss Keeldar?"
"Yes, and to Caroline likewise. It is nothing new, I hope. You have bid us both good-night before."

"Must I say good-night to you, Miss Keeldar?"
"Yes, and to Caroline likewise."


He took her hand, held it in one of his, and covered it with the other. He looked down at her gravely, kindly, yet commandingly. The heiress could not make this man her subject. In his gaze on her bright face there was no servility, hardly homage; but there were interest and affection, heightened by another feeling. Something in his tone when he spoke, as well as in his words, marked that last sentiment to be gratitude.
"Your debtor bids you good-night! May you rest safely and serenely till morning."

He took her hand, held it in one of his, and covered it with the other. He looked down at her gravely, kindly, yet commandingly. The heiress could not make this man her subject. In his gaze there was no servility; but there were interest and affection; and there was gratitude.
"Your debtor bids you good-night! May you rest safely and serenely till morning."


"And you, Mr. Moore--what are you going to do? What have you been saying to Mr. Helstone, with whom I saw you shake hands? Why did all those gentlemen gather round you? Put away reserve for once. Be frank with me."
"Who can resist you? I will be frank. To-morrow, if there is anything to relate, you shall hear it."
"Just now," pleaded Shirley; "don't procrastinate."

"And you, Mr. Moore - what are you going to do? What were you saying to Mr. Helstone, with whom I saw you shake hands? Why did all those gentlemen gather round you? Be frank."
"Who can resist you? I will be frank. Tomorrow, if there is anything to relate, you shall hear it. Right now


"But I could only tell half a tale. And my time is limited; I have not a moment to spare. Hereafter I will make amends for delay by candour."
"But are you going home?"
"Yes."
"Not to leave it any more to-night?"
"Certainly not. At present, farewell to both of you."

 I could only tell half a tale. And I have not a moment to spare."
"You are going home?"
"Yes. Farewell to both of you."


He would have taken Caroline's hand and joined it in the same clasp in which he held Shirley's, but somehow it was not ready for him. She had withdrawn a few steps apart. Her answer to Moore's adieu was only a slight bend of the head and a gentle, serious smile. He sought no more cordial token. Again he said "Farewell," and quitted them both.
"There! it is over," said Shirley when he was gone. "We have made him bid us good-night, and yet not lost ground in his esteem, I think, Cary."
"I hope not," was the brief reply.

He would have taken Caroline's hand and clasped it as he had Shirley's, but somehow her hand was not ready for him. She had withdrawn, and gave him only a slight bend of the head and a gentle, serious smile. Again he said "Farewell," and left them both.
"There!" said Shirley. "We have not lost ground in his esteem, I think, Cary."
"I hope not," was the brief reply.


"I consider you very timid and undemonstrative," remarked Miss Keeldar. "Why did you not give Moore your hand when he offered you his? He is your cousin; you like him. Are you ashamed to let him perceive your affection?"
"He perceives all of it that interests him. No need to make a display of feeling."
"You are laconic; you would be stoical if you could. Is love, in your eyes, a crime, Caroline?"

"Why did you not give Moore your hand? He is your cousin; you like him. Are you ashamed to let him perceive your affection?"
"He perceives all of it that interests him. No need to make a display of feeling."
"You are laconic. Is love, in your eyes, a crime, Caroline?"


"Love a crime! No, Shirley; love is a divine virtue. But why drag that word into the conversation? It is singularly irrelevant."
"Good!" pronounced Shirley.
The two girls paced the green lane in silence. Caroline first resumed.

"Love a crime! No, Shirley; love is a divine virtue. But why drag that word into the conversation? It is singularly irrelevant."
"Good!"
The two girls paced the green lane in silence. Caroline first resumed.


"Obtrusiveness is a crime, forwardness is a crime, and both disgust; but love! no purest angel need blush to love. And when I see or hear either man or woman couple shame with love, I know their minds are coarse, their associations debased. Many who think themselves refined ladies and gentlemen, and on whose lips the word 'vulgarity' is for ever hovering, cannot mention 'love' without betraying their own innate and imbecile degradation. It is a low feeling in their estimation, connected only with low ideas for them."
"You describe three-fourths of the world, Caroline."
"They are cold--they are cowardly--they are stupid on the subject, Shirley! They never loved--they never were loved!"
"Thou art right, Lina. And in their dense ignorance they blaspheme living fire, seraph-brought from a divine altar."

"Forwardness is a crime; but love! No-one need blush to love. When I hear anyone couple shame with love, I know their minds are coarse and debased. Many who think themselves refined ladies and gentlemen cannot mention 'love' without betraying their own innate degradation. It is connected only with low ideas for them."
"You describe three-fourths of the world, Caroline."
"They are cold - they are stupid, Shirley! They never loved - they never were loved!"
"Thou art right, Lina."


"They confound it with sparks mounting from Tophet."
The sudden and joyous clash of bells here stopped the dialogue by summoning all to the church.

The sudden joyous clash of bells here stopped the dialogue by summoning all to the church.


Briarmains being nearer than the Hollow, Mr. Yorke had conveyed his young comrade there. He had seen him laid in the best bed of the house, as carefully as if he had been one of his own sons. The sight of his blood, welling from the treacherously inflicted wound, made him indeed the son of the Yorkshire gentleman's heart. The spectacle of the sudden event, of the tall, straight shape prostrated in its pride across the road, of the fine southern head laid low in the dust, of that youth in prime flung at once before him pallid, lifeless, helpless--this was the very combination of circumstances to win for the victim Mr. Yorke's liveliest interest.
No other hand was there to raise--to aid, no other voice to question kindly, no other brain to concert measures; he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on his benevolence secured that benevolence most effectually. Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it. He had now between his hands power over a fellow-creature's life. It suited him.

His own house, Briarmains, being nearer than the Hollow, Mr. Yorke had conveyed Robert Moore there. He had seen him laid in the best bed, as carefully as if he had been one of his own sons. The sight of Moore's welling blood, the spectacle of the fine head suddenly laid low in the dust, made him indeed the son of the Yorkshire gentleman's heart.
There was nobody else to help him; he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding young man brought out his benevolence. Mr. Yorke liked to have power; and he now had power over a fellow-creature's life. It suited him.

Chapter 32: THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH


No less perfectly did it suit his saturnine better half. The incident was quite in her way and to her taste. Some women would have been terror-struck to see a gory man brought in over their threshold, and laid down in their hall in the "howe of the night." There, you would suppose, was subject-matter for hysterics. No. Mrs. Yorke went into hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to her knitting, or when Martin proposed starting for Australia, with a view to realize freedom and escape the tyranny of Matthew; but an attempted murder near her door--a half-murdered man in her best bed--set her straight, cheered her spirits, gave her cap the dash of a turban.

No less did it suit his wife. Some women would have been terror-struck to see a gory man brought in over their threshold. You would have supposed it a cause for hysterics. No. Mrs. Yorke went into hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to her knitting; but an attempted murder nearby - a half-murdered man in her best bed - cheered her spirits.


Mrs. Yorke was just the woman who, while rendering miserable the drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would nurse like a heroine a hospital full of plague patients. She almost loved Moore. Her tough heart almost yearned towards him when she found him committed to her charge--left in her arms, as dependent on her as her youngest-born in the cradle. Had she seen a domestic or one of her daughters give him a draught of water or smooth his pillow, she would have boxed the intruder's ears. She chased Jessie and Rose from the upper realm of the house; she forbade the housemaids to set their foot in it.
Now, if the accident had happened at the rectory gates, and old Helstone had taken in the martyr, neither Yorke nor his wife would have pitied him. They would have adjudged him right served for his tyranny and meddling. As it was, he became, for the present, the apple of their eye.

Mrs. Yorke was a woman who, while making her maid-servant miserable, would nurse a hospital full of plague patients like a heroine. She almost loved Moore with her tough heart. She chased Jessie and Rose from his room, and forbade the housemaids to enter it. Moore became the apple of her eye.


Strange! Louis Moore was permitted to come--to sit down on the edge of the bed and lean over the pillow; to hold his brother's hand, and press his pale forehead with his fraternal lips; and Mrs. Yorke bore it well. She suffered him to stay half the day there; she once suffered him to sit up all night in the chamber; she rose herself at five o'clock of a wet November morning, and with her own hands lit the kitchen fire, and made the brothers a breakfast, and served it to them herself. Majestically arrayed in a boundless flannel wrapper, a shawl, and her nightcap, she sat and watched them eat, as complacently as a hen beholds her chickens feed. Yet she gave the cook warning that day for venturing to make and carry up to Mr. Moore a basin of sago-gruel; and the housemaid lost her favour because, when Mr. Louis was departing, she brought him his surtout aired from the kitchen, and, like a "forward piece" as she was, helped him on with it, and accepted in return a smile, a "Thank you, my girl," and a shilling. Two ladies called one day, pale and anxious, and begged earnestly, humbly, to be allowed to see Mr. Moore one instant. Mrs. Yorke hardened her heart, and sent them packing--not without opprobrium.

Strange! Louis Moore was permitted to sit on the edge of the bed and hold his brother's hand; and Mrs. Yorke bore it well. She allowed him to stay half the day there; she once allowed him to sit up all night in the chamber; she herself rose at five o'clock of a wet November morning, and with her own hands lit the kitchen fire, and made the brothers' breakfast, and served it to them. Majestically arrayed in a boundless flannel wrapper, a shawl and nightcap, she sat and watched them eat, as complacently as a hen beholds her chickens feed. Yet she would not let the cook or the housemaid so much as carry up a basin of gruel.
Two ladies called one day, pale and anxious, and begged earnestly, humbly, to be allowed to see Mr. Moore one instant. Mrs. Yorke hardened her heart, and sent them packing.


But how was it when Hortense Moore came? Not so bad as might have been expected. The whole family of the Moores really seemed to suit Mrs. Yorke so as no other family had ever suited her. Hortense and she possessed an exhaustless mutual theme of conversation in the corrupt propensities of servants. Their views of this class were similar; they watched them with the same suspicion, and judged them with the same severity. Hortense, too, from the very first showed no manner of jealousy of Mrs. Yorke's attentions to Robert--she let her keep the post of nurse with little interference; and, for herself, found ceaseless occupation in fidgeting about the house, holding the kitchen under surveillance, reporting what passed there, and, in short, making herself generally useful. Visitors they both of them agreed in excluding sedulously from the sickroom. They held the young mill-owner captive, and hardly let the air breathe or the sun shine on him.

But when Hortense Moore came, it was not so bad. Hortense and Mrs. Yorke possessed an exhaustless mutual theme of conversation, in the corrupt tendencies of servants. Their views of this class were similar; they were both suspicious and severe. Hortense, too, showed no jealousy of Mrs. Yorke's attentions to Robert; she did not interfere, but fidgeted about the house and kitchen, making herself generally useful. They both agreed in excluding visitors from the sickroom, and held the young mill-owner captive.


Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon to whom Moore's case had been committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but, he trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first he wished to place with him a nurse of his own selection; but this neither Mrs. Yorke nor Hortense would hear of. They promised faithful observance of directions. He was left, therefore, for the present in their hands.
Doubtless they executed the trust to the best of their ability; but something got wrong. The bandages were displaced or tampered with; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being summoned, came with steed afoam. He was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex--abrupt in his best moods, in his worst savage. On seeing Moore's state he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language, with which it is not necessary to strew the present page. A bouquet or two of the choicest blossoms fell on the unperturbed head of one Mr. Graves, a stony young assistant he usually carried about with him; with a second nosegay he gifted another young gentleman in his train--an interesting fac-simile of himself, being indeed his own son; but the full _corbeille_ of blushing bloom fell to the lot of meddling womankind, _en masse_.

Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon, pronounced his wound to be dangerous, but not hopeless. Mrs. Yorke and Hortense promised to observe his directions faithfully, so Moore was left in their hands.
Doubtless they nursed him to the best of their ability; but something went wrong. The bandages were displaced; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being summoned, came in haste. He was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex - abrupt in his best moods, in his worst savage. On seeing Moore's state he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language about meddling womankind.


For the best part of one winter night himself and satellites were busied about Moore. There at his bedside, shut up alone with him in his chamber, they wrought and wrangled over his exhausted frame. They three were on one side of the bed, and Death on the other. The conflict was sharp; it lasted till day broke, when the balance between the belligerents seemed so equal that both parties might have claimed the victory.
At dawn Graves and young MacTurk were left in charge of the patient, while the senior went himself in search of additional strength, and secured it in the person of Mrs. Horsfall, the best nurse on his staff. To this woman he gave Moore in charge, with the sternest injunctions respecting the responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took this responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy-chair at the bedhead. That moment she began her reign.

For the best part of one winter night he and two male assistants were busied about Moore. Shut up alone with him in his chamber, they wrangled with Death over his exhausted frame. The conflict was sharp; it lasted till dawn.
Then the two assistants were left with the patient, while the senior went himself in search of additional strength, in the person of Mrs. Horsfall, the best nurse on his staff. To this woman he gave Moore in charge. She took the responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy-chair by the bed. That moment she began her reign.


Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue--orders received from MacTurk she obeyed to the letter. The ten commandments were less binding in her eyes than her surgeon's dictum. In other respects she was no woman, but a dragon. Hortense Moore fell effaced before her; Mrs. Yorke withdrew--crushed; yet both these women were personages of some dignity in their own estimation, and of some bulk in the estimation of others. Perfectly cowed by the breadth, the height, the bone, and the brawn of Mrs. Horsfall, they retreated to the back parlour. She, for her part, sat upstairs when she liked, and downstairs when she preferred it. She took her dram three times a day, and her pipe of tobacco four times.
As to Moore, no one now ventured to inquire about him. Mrs. Horsfall had him at dry-nurse. It was she who was to do for him, and the general conjecture now ran that she did for him accordingly.

Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue - she obeyed MacTurk's orders to the letter. In other respects she was no woman, but a dragon. Hortense Moore fell before her; Mrs. Yorke withdrew, crushed; yet both these women were personages of some dignity. Cowed by the breadth, the height, and the brawn of Mrs. Horsfall, they retreated to the back parlour. She, for her part, sat upstairs when she liked, and downstairs when she preferred it. She took her dram of gin three times a day, and her pipe of tobacco.


Morning and evening MacTurk came to see him. His case, thus complicated by a new mischance, was become one of interest in the surgeon's eyes. He regarded him as a damaged piece of clockwork, which it would be creditable to his skill to set agoing again. Graves and young MacTurk--Moore's sole other visitors--contemplated him in the light in which they were wont to contemplate the occupant for the time being of the dissecting-room at Stilbro' Infirmary.
Robert Moore had a pleasant time of it--in pain, in danger, too weak to move, almost too weak to speak, a sort of giantess his keeper, the three surgeons his sole society. Thus he lay through the diminishing days and lengthening nights of the whole drear month of November.

Morning and evening MacTurk came to see Moore. His case became interesting in the surgeon's eyes. MacTurk regarded him as a damaged piece of clockwork, which it would be a credit to his skill to set going again. Robert Moore had a pleasant time of it - in pain, in danger, too weak to move, almost too weak to speak, a sort of giantess as his keeper, the three surgeons his sole society. Thus he lay through the whole drear month of November.


In the commencement of his captivity Moore used feebly to resist Mrs. Horsfall. He hated the sight of her rough bulk, and dreaded the contact of her hard hands; but she taught him docility in a trice. She made no account whatever of his six feet, his manly thews and sinews; she turned him in his bed as another woman would have turned a babe in its cradle. When he was good she addressed him as "my dear" and "honey," and when he was bad she sometimes shook him. Did he attempt to speak when MacTurk was there, she lifted her hand and bade him "Hush!" like a nurse checking a forward child. If she had not smoked, if she had not taken gin, it would have been better, he thought; but she did both. Once, in her absence, he intimated to MacTurk that "that woman was a dram-drinker."

At first Moore used feebly to resist Mrs. Horsfall. He hated the sight of her rough bulk, and dreaded the contact of her hard hands; but she taught him docility. She turned him in his bed as another woman would have turned a babe in its cradle. When he was good she addressed him as "my dear", and when he was bad she sometimes shook him. If he tried to speak when MacTurk was there, she lifted her hand and bade him "Hush!" like a nurse checking a forward child. If she had not smoked and taken gin, it would have been better, he thought; and once, in her absence, he hinted to MacTurk that "that woman was a dram-drinker."


"Pooh! my dear sir, they are all so," was the reply he got for his pains. "But Horsfall has this virtue," added the surgeon--"drunk or sober, she always remembers to obey _me_."
* * * * *
At length the latter autumn passed; its fogs, its rains withdrew from England their mourning and their tears; its winds swept on to sigh over lands far away. Behind November came deep winter--clearness, stillness, frost accompanying.
A calm day had settled into a crystalline evening. The world wore a North Pole colouring; all its lights and tints looked like the _reflets_[A] of white, or violet, or pale green gems. The hills wore a lilac blue; the setting sun had purple in its red; the sky was ice, all silvered azure; when the stars rose, they were of white crystal, not gold; gray, or cerulean, or faint emerald hues--cool, pure, and transparent--tinged the mass of the landscape.

"Pooh! my dear sir, they are all so," was the reply. "But drunk or sober, she always remembers to obey me."
At length the fogs and rains withdrew. Behind November came deep winter - clearness, stillness, frost.
A calm day had settled into a crystalline evening. The world wore a North Pole colouring; the hills were lilac blue; the sky was ice; when the stars rose, they were of white crystal; faint emerald hues tinged the landscape.


[A] Find me an English word as good, reader, and I will gladly dispense with the French word. "Reflections" won't do.
What is this by itself in a wood no longer green, no longer even russet, a wood neutral tint--this dark blue moving object? Why, it is a schoolboy--a Briarfield grammar-school boy--who has left his companions, now trudging home by the highroad, and is seeking a certain tree, with a certain mossy mound at its root, convenient as a seat. Why is he lingering here? The air is cold and the time wears late. He sits down. What is he thinking about? Does he feel the chaste charm Nature wears to-night? A pearl-white moon smiles through the gray trees; does he care for her smile?

What is this, moving in a wood no longer green, no longer even russet, this dark blue object? Why, it is a schoolboy who is trudging home alone, and seeking a certain tree where he can sit. Why is he lingering here? The air is cold and the time grows late. He sits down. What is he thinking about?


Impossible to say; for he is silent, and his countenance does not speak. As yet it is no mirror to reflect sensation, but rather a mask to conceal it. This boy is a stripling of fifteen--slight, and tall of his years. In his face there is as little of amenity as of servility, his eye seems prepared to note any incipient attempt to control or overreach him, and the rest of his features indicate faculties alert for resistance. Wise ushers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad. To break him in by severity would be a useless attempt; to win him by flattery would be an effort worse than useless. He is best let alone. Time will educate and experience train him.

Impossible to say; for he is silent, and his face shows nothing. This boy is a stripling of fifteen - slight, and tall for his years. His eye seems prepared to note any attempt to control him; he looks as if he is alert for resistance. Wise teachers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad. He is best let alone. Time will educate and experience train him.


Professedly Martin Yorke (it is a young Yorke, of course) tramples on the name of poetry. Talk sentiment to him, and you would be answered by sarcasm. Here he is, wandering alone, waiting duteously on Nature, while she unfolds a page of stern, of silent, and of solemn poetry beneath his attentive gaze.
Being seated, he takes from his satchel a book--not the Latin grammar, but a contraband volume of fairy tales. There will be light enough yet for an hour to serve his keen young vision. Besides, the moon waits on him; her beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade where he sits.

Martin Yorke (for it is a young Yorke) tramples on the name of poetry. Talk sentiment to him, and you would be answered by sarcasm. Yet here he is, wandering alone, waiting on Nature, while she unfolds a page of stern and solemn poetry beneath his attentive gaze.
Being seated, he takes from his satchel a book - a volume of fairy tales. There will be light enough to read by for an hour.


He reads. He is led into a solitary mountain region; all round him is rude and desolate, shapeless, and almost colourless. He hears bells tinkle on the wind. Forth-riding from the formless folds of the mist dawns on him the brightest vision--a green-robed lady, on a snow-white palfrey. He sees her dress, her gems, and her steed. She arrests him with some mysterious question. He is spell-bound, and must follow her into fairyland.

He reads. He is led into a solitary mountain region; he hears bells tinkle on the wind. From the formless folds of the mist there rides a bright vision - a green-robed lady, on a snow-white palfrey. She asks him some mysterious question. He is spell-bound, and must follow her into fairyland.


A second legend bears him to the sea-shore. There tumbles in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy cliffs. It rains and blows. A reef of rocks, black and rough, stretches far into the sea. All along, and among, and above these crags dash and flash, sweep and leap, swells, wreaths, drifts of snowy spray. Some lone wanderer is out on these rocks, treading with cautious step the wet, wild seaweed; glancing down into hollows where the brine lies fathoms deep and emerald clear, and seeing there wilder and stranger and huger vegetation than is found on land, with treasure of shells--some green, some purple, some pearly--clustered in the curls of the snaky plants. He hears a cry. Looking up and forward, he sees, at the bleak point of the reef, a tall, pale thing--shaped like man, but made of spray--transparent, tremulous, awful. It stands not alone. They are all human figures that wanton in the rocks--a crowd of foam-women--a band of white, evanescent Nereids.

A second legend bears him to the sea-shore. There tumbles in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy cliffs. Black rocks stretch far into the sea, wreathed in spray. Some lone wanderer is out on these rocks, treading cautiously. He hears a cry. Looking up he sees, at the point of the reef, a tall, pale thing - human-shaped but made of spray - transparent, tremulous, awful.


Hush! Shut the book; hide it in the satchel. Martin hears a tread. He listens. No--yes. Once more the dead leaves, lightly crushed, rustle on the wood path. Martin watches; the trees part, and a woman issues forth.

Hush! Shut the book; hide it in the satchel. Martin hears a tread. The dead leaves rustle on the wood path. Martin watches; the trees part, and a woman emerges.


She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before--nor any female, save, now and then, a village girl come to gather nuts. To-night the apparition does not displease him. He observes, as she approaches, that she is neither old nor plain, but, on the contrary, very youthful; and, but that he now recognizes her for one whom he has often wilfully pronounced ugly, he would deem that he discovered traits of beauty behind the thin gauze of that veil.
She passes him and says nothing. He knew she would. All women are proud monkeys, and he knows no more conceited doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind when the lady retraces those two steps she had got beyond him, and raising her veil, reposes her glance on his face, while she softly asks, "Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons?"
No human evidence would ever have been able to persuade Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush he did, to the ears.
"I am," he said bluntly, and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.

She is dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before. He observes that she is young; and, if not for the fact that he now recognizes her as one whom he has often pronounced ugly, he would think her beautiful behind the thin gauze of that veil.
She passes him and says nothing. He knew she would. All women are proud monkeys, and he knows no more conceited doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind when the lady retraces her steps to him, raises her veil, and softly asks, "Are you one of Mr. Yorke's sons?"
No evidence would ever have persuaded Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blush he did, to the ears.
"I am," he said bluntly, and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.


"You are Martin, I think?" was the observation that followed.
It could not have been more felicitous. It was a simple sentence--very artlessly, a little timidly, pronounced; but it chimed in harmony to the youth's nature. It stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality; he felt it right and sensible that the girl should discriminate him from his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony. It was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which form would have lost her his good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than ceremony was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity. The slight tone of bashfulness, the scarcely perceptible hesitation, was considered perfectly in place.

"You are Martin, I think?" It was a simple sentence, a little timid; but it stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality; he felt it right that the girl should know him from his brothers. It was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which would have lost her his good graces for ever. But so would slipshod familiarity. The slight tone of bashfulness was considered perfectly in place.


"I am Martin," he said.
"Are your father and mother well?" (it was lucky she did not say _papa_ and _mamma_; that would have undone all); "and Rose and Jessie?"
"I suppose so."
"My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh yes."
Martin gave a comic half-smile and demi-groan. The half-smile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in what sort of odour Hortense was likely to be held by the young Yorkes.
"Does your mother like her?"
"They suit so well about the servants they can't help liking each other."

"I am Martin," he said.
"Are your father and mother well?" (it was lucky she did not say papa and mamma; that would have undone all); "and Rose and Jessie?"
"I suppose so."
"My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh yes." Martin gave a comic half-smile and groan, which the lady responded to. She could guess what the young Yorkes thought of Hortense.
"Does your mother like her?"
"They agree so well about the servants that they can't help liking each other."