"Oh, that is nothing," she replied. "My uncle and I get on very well. We never quarrel--I don't call him harsh--he never scolds me. Sometimes I wish somebody in the world loved me, but I cannot say that I particularly wish him to have more affection for me than he has. As a child, I should perhaps have felt the want of attention, only the servants were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent to us, we grow indifferent to their indifference. It is my uncle's way not to care for women and girls, unless they be ladies that he meets in company. He could not alter, and I have no wish that he should alter, as far as I am concerned. I believe it would merely annoy and frighten me were he to be affectionate towards me now. But you know, Mrs. Pryor, it is scarcely _living_ to measure time as I do at the rectory. The hours pass, and I get them over somehow, but I do not _live_. I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss Keeldar and you came I have been--I was going to say happier, but that would be untrue." She paused.

"Oh, my uncle and I get on very well," she replied. "We never quarrel - he never scolds me. Sometimes I wish somebody in the world loved me, but I cannot say that I particularly wish him to have more affection for me. As a child, I should perhaps have felt the lack of attention, only the servants were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent to us, we grow indifferent to their indifference. My uncle does not care for women and girls, apart from ladies that he meets in company. I have no wish that he should alter. It would merely annoy and frighten me were he to be affectionate towards me now. But you know, Mrs. Pryor, it is scarcely living to measure time as I do at the rectory. The hours pass, and I get through them somehow, but I do not live. I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss Keeldar and you came I have been - I was going to say happier, but that would be untrue." She paused.


"How untrue? You are fond of Miss Keeldar, are you not, my dear?"


"Very fond of Shirley. I both like and admire her. But I am painfully circumstanced. For a reason I cannot explain I want to go away from this place, and to forget it."

"Very fond of Shirley. I both like and admire her. But I am painfully circumstanced. For a reason I cannot explain I want to go away from this place."


"You told me before you wished to be a governess; but, my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea. I have been a governess myself great part of my life. In Miss Keeldar's acquaintance I esteem myself most fortunate. Her talents and her really sweet disposition have rendered my office easy to me; but when I was young, before I married, my trials were severe, poignant. I should not like a---- I should not like you to endure similar ones. It was my lot to enter a family of considerable pretensions to good birth and mental superiority, and the members of which also believed that 'on them was perceptible' an unusual endowment of the 'Christian graces;' that all their hearts were regenerate, and their spirits in a peculiar state of discipline. I was early given to understand that 'as I was not their equal,' so I could not expect 'to have their sympathy.' It was in no sort concealed from me that I was held a 'burden and a restraint in society.' The gentlemen, I found, regarded me as a 'tabooed woman,' to whom 'they were interdicted from granting the usual privileges of the sex,' and yet 'who annoyed them by frequently crossing their path.' The ladies too made it plain that they thought me 'a bore.' The servants, it was signified, 'detested me;' _why_, I could never clearly comprehend. My pupils, I was told, 'however much they might love me, and how deep soever the interest I might take in them, could not be my friends.' It was intimated that I must 'live alone, and never transgress the invisible but rigid line which established the difference between me and my employers.' My life in this house was sedentary, solitary, constrained, joyless, toilsome. The dreadful crushing of the animal spirits, the ever-prevailing sense of friendlessness and homelessness consequent on this state of things began ere long to produce mortal effects on my constitution. I sickened. The lady of the house told me coolly I was the victim of 'wounded vanity.' She hinted that if I did not make an effort to quell my 'ungodly discontent,' to cease 'murmuring against God's appointment,' and to cultivate the profound humility befitting my station, my mind would very likely 'go to pieces' on the rock that wrecked most of my sisterhood--morbid self-esteem--and that I should die an inmate of a lunatic asylum.

"You told me before, you wished to be a governess; but, my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea. I have been a governess myself for much of my life. I am most fortunate that Miss Keeldar's talents and her sweet disposition have made my position easy; but when I was young, before I married, my trials were severe. I should not like you to endure similar trials. I worked for a family of good birth, whose members believed that they were unusually good Christians; that all their hearts were reborn, and their spirits perfectly disciplined. I was early given to understand that 'as I was not their equal,' so I could not expect to have their sympathy. The gentlemen, I found, regarded me as a 'tabooed woman,' who annoyed them by crossing their path. The ladies made it plain that they thought me 'a bore,' and the servants, I was told, 'detested me;' why, I could never clearly comprehend. My pupils, I was informed, 'however much they might love me, could not be my friends.' It was made clear that I must never cross the invisible but rigid line which separated me from my employers.' My life was solitary, joyless, toilsome. The sense of friendlessness and homelessness it caused began to affect my health. I sickened. The lady of the house told me coolly I was the victim of wounded vanity. She hinted that if I did not make an effort to quell my 'ungodly discontent,' and to cultivate the humility befitting my station, I would very likely 'go to pieces', and die an inmate of a lunatic asylum.


"I said nothing to Mrs. Hardman--it would have been useless; but to her eldest daughter I one day dropped a few observations, which were answered thus. There were hardships, she allowed, in the position of a governess. 'Doubtless they had their trials; but,' she averred, with a manner it makes me smile now to recall--'but it must be so. _She_' (Miss H.) 'had neither view, hope, nor _wish_ to see these things remedied; for in the inherent constitution of English habits, feelings, and prejudices there was no possibility that they should be. Governesses,' she observed, 'must ever be kept in a sort of isolation. It is the only means of maintaining that distance which the reserve of English manners and the decorum of English families exact.'

"I said nothing to Mrs. Hardman - it would have been useless; but her eldest daughter, visiting my bedside, allowed that there were hardships in the position of a governess. However, these things, she said, were as they must be. 'Governesses,' she observed, 'must ever be kept in isolation, to maintain that distance which decorum requires.'


"I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my bedside. She caught the sound, and turning, said severely, 'I fear, Miss Grey, you have inherited in fullest measure the worst sin of our fallen nature--the sin of pride. You are proud, and therefore you are ungrateful too. Mamma pays you a handsome salary, and if you had average sense you would thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing to do and irksome to bear, since it is so well made worth your while.'

"I remember I sighed. Miss Hardman said severely, 'I fear, Miss Grey, you have inherited the sin of pride, and are ungrateful too. Mamma pays you a handsome salary, and if you had sense you would thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing and irksome, since it is made well worth your while.'


"Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded young lady, of most distinguished talents. The aristocracy are decidedly a very superior class, you know, both physically, and morally, and mentally; as a high Tory I acknowledge that. I could not describe the dignity of her voice and mien as she addressed me thus; still, I fear she was selfish, my dear. I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank, but I think she was a little selfish."

"Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded young lady, of most distinguished talents. The aristocracy are decidedly a very superior class, you know; as a high Tory I acknowledge that. She was most dignified as she addressed me thus; still, I fear she was a little selfish, my dear.


"I remember," continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, "another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter with quite a grand air. 'WE,' she would say--'WE need the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which WE reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people, however well educated, must necessarily be underbred, and as such unfit to be inmates of OUR dwellings, or guardians of OUR children's minds and persons. WE shall ever prefer to place those about OUR offspring who have been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement as OURSELVES.'"

"I remember," continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, "another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter with quite a grand air. She would say: 'We need the imprudences, mistakes, and crimes of a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which we reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people, however well educated, must necessarily be underbred, and unfit to be guardians of our children. We shall ever prefer to place about our offspring those who have been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement as ourselves.'"


"Miss Hardman must have thought herself something better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held that their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to minister to her convenience. You say she was religious. Her religion must have been that of the Pharisee who thanked God that he was not as other men are, nor even as that publican."

"Miss Hardman must have thought herself something better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am," said Caroline, "since she held that their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to minister to her convenience. Her religion must have been that of the Pharisee who thanked God that he was not as other men are."


"My dear, we will not discuss the point. I should be the last person to wish to instil into your mind any feeling of dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of envy or insubordination towards your superiors. Implicit submission to authorities, scrupulous deference to our betters (under which term I, of course, include the higher classes of society), are, in my opinion, indispensable to the well-being of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is that you had better not attempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would be too severe for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe towards either Mrs. or Miss Hardman; only, recalling my own experience, I cannot but feel that, were you to fall under auspices such as theirs, you would contend a while courageously with your doom, then you would pine and grow too weak for your work; you would come home--if you still had a home--broken down. Those languishing years would follow of which none but the invalid and her immediate friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden. Consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is the history of many a life. I would not have it yours. My dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please."

"My dear, we will not discuss the point. I should be the last person to wish to make you dissatisfied with your lot in life. Submission to authorities, scrupulous deference to our betters are, in my opinion, indispensable to the well-being of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is that you had better not attempt to be a governess, as the duties would be too severe for you. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe towards the Hardmans; only I feel that, were you to live with such a family, you would contend a while courageously, then you would pine and grow too weak for your work; you would come home - if you still had a home - broken down. Consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is the history of many a life. I would not have it yours. My dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please."


They both rose, and slowly paced a green natural terrace bordering the chasm.

They both rose, and paced a green terrace bordering the chasm.


"My dear," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she spoke, "the young, especially those to whom nature has been favourable, often--frequently--anticipate--look forward to--to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."

"My dear," again began Mrs. Pryor, with a timid, embarrassed abruptness, "the young often - frequently - anticipate - look forward to - to marriage as the goal of their hopes."


And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with promptitude, showing a great deal more self-possession and courage than herself on the formidable topic now broached.

And she stopped. Caroline came promptly to her relief with self-possession and courage.


"They do, and naturally," she replied, with a calm emphasis that startled Mrs. Pryor. "They look forward to marriage with some one they love as the brightest, the only bright destiny that can await them. Are they wrong?"

"They do, and naturally," she replied with calmness. "They look forward to marriage with someone they love as the brightest destiny that can await them. Are they wrong?"


"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands; and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager eye on the face of her friend: that face was much agitated. "My dear," she murmured, "life is an illusion."

"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands; and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching eye on her agitated face. "My dear," she murmured, "life is an illusion."


"But not love! Love is real--the most real, the most lasting, the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."

"But not love!" exclaimed Caroline. "Love is the most real, the most lasting, the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."


"My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong--strong as death! Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to their sweetness, nothing is so transitory; its date is a moment, the twinkling of an eye. The sting remains for ever. It may perish with the dawn of eternity, but it tortures through time into its deepest night."

"My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong - strong as death! As to the sweetness, nothing is so fleeting; but its sting remains for ever. It tortures through time into its deepest night."


"Yes, it tortures through time," agreed Caroline, "except when it is mutual love."


"Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious. You do not read them, I hope?"

"Mutual love! My dear, romantic novels are pernicious. You do not read them, I hope?"


"Sometimes--whenever I can get them, indeed. But romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it."

"Sometimes - whenever I can get them, indeed. But romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it."


"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented Mrs. Pryor eagerly, "nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot be too strongly condemned. They are not like reality. They show you only the green, tempting surface of the marsh, and give not one faithful or truthful hint of the slough underneath."

"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented Mrs. Pryor eagerly, "nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot be too strongly condemned. They are not like reality. They show you only the green, tempting surface of the marsh, and give not one truthful hint of the slough underneath."


"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline. "There are happy marriages. Where affection is reciprocal and sincere, and minds are harmonious, marriage _must_ be happy."

"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline. "There are happy marriages. Where affection is shared and sincere, and minds are harmonious, marriage must be happy."


"It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally be as one. There is, perhaps, a possibility of content under peculiar circumstances, such as are seldom combined; but it is as well not to run the risk--you may make fatal mistakes. Be satisfied, my dear. Let all the single be satisfied with their freedom."

"It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally be as one. There is, perhaps, a possibility of contentment under some rare circumstances; but it is as well not to risk it, my dear. Let the single be satisfied with their freedom."


"You echo my uncle's words!" exclaimed Caroline, in a tone of dismay. "You speak like Mrs. Yorke in her most gloomy moments, like Miss Mann when she is most sourly and hypochondriacally disposed. This is terrible!"

"You echo my uncle's words!" exclaimed Caroline, in dismay. "You speak like Mrs. Yorke in her gloomy moments, like Miss Mann at her most sour. This is terrible!"


"No, it is only true. O child, you have only lived the pleasant morning time of life; the hot, weary noon, the sad evening, the sunless night, are yet to come for you. Mr. Helstone, you say, talks as I talk; and I wonder how Mrs. Matthewson Helstone would have talked had she been living. She died! she died!"

"No, it is only true. O child, you have only lived the pleasant morning of life; the hot, weary noon, the sad evening, the sunless night, are yet to come for you. Mr. Helstone, you say, talks as I talk; and I wonder how his wife would have talked had she been living!"


"And, alas! my own mother and father----" exclaimed Caroline, struck by a sombre recollection.

"And, alas! my own mother and father-" exclaimed Caroline.


"Did I never tell you that they were separated?"


"They must, then, have been very miserable."


"You see all _facts_ go to prove what I say."

"You see all facts go to prove what I say."


"In this case there ought to be no such thing as marriage."


"There ought, my dear, were it only to prove that this life is a mere state of probation, wherein neither rest nor recompense is to be vouchsafed."

"There ought, my dear, if only to prove that in this life there is neither rest nor recompense."


Mrs. Pryor shrank and shuddered as if a rude finger had pressed a naked nerve. Caroline felt she had touched what would not bear the slightest contact.

Mrs. Pryor shrank and shuddered as if she had pressed a naked nerve.


"My marriage was unhappy," said the lady, summoning courage at last; "but yet----" She hesitated.

"My marriage was unhappy," said she, summoning courage at last; "but yet-" She hesitated.


"But yet," suggested Caroline, "not immitigably wretched?"

"But yet," suggested Caroline, "not entirely wretched?"


"Not in its results, at least. No," she added, in a softer tone; "God mingles something of the balm of mercy even in vials of the most corrosive woe. He can so turn events that from the very same blind, rash act whence sprang the curse of half our life may flow the blessing of the remainder. Then I am of a peculiar disposition--I own that--far from facile, without address, in some points eccentric. I ought never to have married. Mine is not the nature easily to find a duplicate or likely to assimilate with a contrast. I was quite aware of my own ineligibility; and if I had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should have married; and then----"

"Not in its results, at least. No," she added, in a softer tone; "God mingles the balm of mercy with the most corrosive woe. I confess I am of a peculiar disposition - in some points eccentric. I ought never to have married. I was quite aware of it; and if I had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should have married; and then


Caroline's eyes asked her to proceed. They entreated her to break the thick cloud of despair which her previous words had seemed to spread over life.


"And then, my dear, Mr.--that is, the gentleman I married--was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an average character. I hope, at least, the experience of few has been such as mine was, or that few have felt their sufferings as I felt mine. They nearly shook my mind; relief was so hopeless, redress so unattainable. But, my dear, I do not wish to dishearten; I only wish to warn you, and to prove that the single should not be too anxious to change their state, as they may change for the worse."

- and then, my dear, the gentleman I married was, perhaps, an exceptional character. I hope, at least, that few have had such an experience as mine was, or have felt my sufferings. But, my dear, I do not wish to dishearten; I only wish to warn you that the single should not be too anxious to change their state, as they may change for the worse."


"Thank you, my dear madam. I quite understand your kind intentions, but there is no fear of my falling into the error to which you allude. I, at least, have no thoughts of marriage, and for that reason I want to make myself a position by some other means."

"Thank you, my dear madam. I quite understand your kind intentions, but I have no thoughts of marriage, and for that reason I want to support myself by some other means."


"My dear, listen to me. On what I am going to say I have carefully deliberated, having, indeed, revolved the subject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your wish to obtain a situation. You know I at present reside with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion. Should she marry (and that she _will_ marry ere long many circumstances induce me to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her in that capacity. I must tell you that I possess a small independency, arising partly from my own savings, and partly from a legacy left me some years since. Whenever I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own. I could not endure to live in solitude. I have no relations whom I care to invite to close intimacy; for, as you must have observed, and as I have already avowed, my habits and tastes have their peculiarities. To you, my dear, I need not say I am attached; with you I am happier than I have ever been with any living thing" (this was said with marked emphasis). "Your society I should esteem a very dear privilege--an inestimable privilege, a comfort, a blessing. You shall come to me, then. Caroline, do you refuse me? I hope you can love me?"

"My dear, listen to me. I have revolved this subject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your wish to obtain a situation. You know I reside with Miss Keeldar as her companion. Should she marry (and I believe that she will before long), I shall cease to be necessary to her in that capacity. I possess a small independency, arising partly from my own savings, and partly from a legacy left me some years since. When I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own. I could not endure to live in solitude, but I have no relations whom I care to invite to close intimacy. As you must have observed, my habits and tastes have their peculiarities. But with you, my dear, I am happier than I have ever been with any living thing. I should esteem it a great privilege - a comfort, a blessing - if you would come to me then. Will you, Caroline? I hope you can love me?"


And with these two abrupt questions she stopped.


"Indeed, I _do_ love you," was the reply. "I should like to live with you. But you are too kind."

"Indeed, I do love you," was the reply. "I should like to live with you. But you are too kind."


"All I have," went on Mrs. Pryor, "I would leave to you. You should be provided for. But never again say I am _too kind_. You pierce my heart, child!"

"All I have," went on Mrs. Pryor, "I would leave to you. You should be provided for. But never again say I am too kind. You pierce my heart, child!"


"But, my dear madam--this generosity--I have no claim----"

"But, my dear madam - this generosity - I have no claim-"


"Hush! you must not talk about it. There are some things we cannot bear to hear. Oh! it is late to begin, but I may yet live a few years. I can never wipe out the past, but perhaps a brief space in the future may yet be mine."


Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated. Large tears trembled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed her, in her gentle, caressing way, saying softly, "I love you dearly. Don't cry."

Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated. Large tears trembled in her eyes. Caroline kissed her gently, saying, "I love you dearly. Don't cry."


But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken. She sat down, bent her head to her knee, and wept aloud. Nothing could console her till the inward storm had had its way. At last the agony subsided of itself.

But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken. She sat down, bent her head and wept, until at last the agony subsided.


"Poor thing!" she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss, "poor lonely lamb! But come," she added abruptly--"come; we must go home."

"Poor lonely lamb!" she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss. "But come; we must go home."


For a short distance Mrs. Pryor walked very fast. By degrees, however, she calmed down to her wonted manner, fell into her usual characteristic pace--a peculiar one, like all her movements--and by the time they reached Fieldhead she had re-entered into herself. The outside was, as usual, still and shy.

At first Mrs. Pryor walked very fast. By degrees, however, she grew calm and fell into her normal pace; and by the time they reached Fieldhead she had re-entered into herself, and was, as usual, still and shy.


One fine summer day that Caroline had spent entirely alone (her uncle being at Whinbury), and whose long, bright, noiseless, breezeless, cloudless hours (how many they seemed since sunrise!) had been to her as desolate as if they had gone over her head in the shadowless and trackless wastes of Sahara, instead of in the blooming garden of an English home, she was sitting in the alcove--her task of work on her knee, her fingers assiduously plying the needle, her eyes following and regulating their movements, her brain working restlessly--when Fanny came to the door, looked round over the lawn and borders, and not seeing her whom she sought, called out, "Miss Caroline!"

One fine summer day that Caroline had spent entirely alone (her uncle being at Whinbury), and whose long, bright, cloudless hours had been to her as desolate as if they had been spent in the shadowless wastes of the Sahara, she was sitting in the alcove, sewing, her brain working restlessly - when Fanny came to the door and called, "Miss Caroline!"


A low voice answered "Fanny!" It issued from the alcove, and thither Fanny hastened, a note in her hand, which she delivered to fingers that hardly seemed to have nerve to hold it. Miss Helstone did not ask whence it came, and she did not look at it; she let it drop amongst the folds of her work.

When she answered, Fanny hastened over, a note in her hand. Miss Helstone did not ask whence it came, and she did not even look at it; she let it drop amongst the folds of her work.


"Joe Scott's son, Harry, brought it," said Fanny.

"Joe Scott's son brought it from the Hollow," said Fanny.


The girl was no enchantress, and knew no magic spell; yet what she said took almost magical effect on her young mistress. She lifted her head with the quick motion of revived sensation; she shot, not a languid, but a lifelike, questioning glance at Fanny.

This had an almost magical effect on her young mistress. She lifted her head.


The dropped note was snatched up eagerly, the seal was broken--it was read in two seconds. An affectionate billet from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from Wormwood Wells; that she was alone to-day, as Robert was gone to Whinbury market; that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's company to tea, and the good lady added, she was quite sure such a change would be most acceptable and beneficial to Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss both for safe guidance and improving society since the misunderstanding between Robert and Mr. Helstone had occasioned a separation from her "meilleure amie, Hortense Grard Moore." In a postscript she was urged to put on her bonnet and run down directly.

The dropped note was snatched up eagerly, the seal was broken - it was read in two seconds.
It was an affectionate note from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from Wormwood Wells; that she was alone today, as Robert was gone to Whinbury market; that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's company for tea. The good lady added, she was sure such a change would be most beneficial to Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss for improving society since the separation from her dear friend, Hortense Grard Moore.


Caroline did not need the injunction. Glad was she to lay by the brown holland child's slip she was trimming with braid for the Jew's basket, to hasten upstairs, cover her curls with her straw bonnet, and throw round her shoulders the black silk scarf, whose simple drapery suited as well her shape as its dark hue set off the purity of her dress and the fairness of her face; glad was she to escape for a few hours the solitude, the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down the green lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent the fragrance of hedge flowers sweeter than the perfume of moss-rose or lily. True, she knew Robert was not at the cottage; but it was delight to go where he had lately been. So long, so totally separated from him, merely to see his home, to enter the room where he had that morning sat, felt like a reunion. As such it revived her; and then Illusion was again following her in Peri mask. The soft agitation of wings caressed her cheek, and the air, breathing from the blue summer sky, bore a voice which whispered, "Robert may come home while you are in his house, and then, at least, you may look in his face--at least you may give him your hand; perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him."

Glad was Caroline to lay aside her sewing, to cover her curls with her straw bonnet, and throw round her shoulders the black silk scarf; glad was she to escape for a few hours the solitude, the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down the fragrant green lane to the Hollow. True, she knew Robert was not there; but it was delight to go where he had lately been, to enter the room where he had that morning sat. And then, her thoughts whispered, "Robert may come home while you are there; you may give him your hand; perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him."


"Silence!" was her austere response; but she loved the comforter and the consolation.

"Silence!" was her austere response; but she loved the consolation.


Miss Moore probably caught from the window the gleam and flutter of Caroline's white attire through the branchy garden shrubs, for she advanced from the cottage porch to meet her. Straight, unbending, phlegmatic as usual, she came on. No haste or ecstasy was ever permitted to disorder the dignity of _her_ movements; but she smiled, well pleased to mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss and the gentle, genial strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly in, half deceived and wholly flattered. Half deceived! had it not been so she would in all probability have put her to the wicket, and shut her out. Had she known clearly to whose account the chief share of this childlike joy was to be placed, Hortense would most likely have felt both shocked and incensed. Sisters do not like young ladies to fall in love with their brothers. It seems, if not presumptuous, silly, weak, a delusion, an absurd mistake. _They_ do not love these gentlemen--whatever sisterly affection they may cherish towards them--and that others should, repels them with a sense of crude romance. The first movement, in short, excited by such discovery (as with many parents on finding their children to be in love) is one of mixed impatience and contempt. Reason--if they be rational people--corrects the false feeling in time; but if they be irrational, it is never corrected, and the daughter or sister-in-law is disliked to the end.

Miss Moore advanced from the cottage to meet her, straight and unbending as usual. No haste or joy was ever permitted to disorder her dignity; but she smiled, pleased to see the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss. She led her tenderly in, half deceived and wholly flattered. Half deceived! Had she known on whose account most of this joy was felt, Hortense would have been both shocked and incensed.


"You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in my note," observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline towards the parlour; "but it was written this morning: since dinner, company has come in."

"You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in my note," observed Miss Moore, as she led Caroline towards the parlour; "but since I wrote it, company has come in."


And opening the door she made visible an ample spread of crimson skirts overflowing the elbow-chair at the fireside, and above them, presiding with dignity, a cap more awful than a crown. That cap had never come to the cottage under a bonnet; no, it had been brought in a vast bag, or rather a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held wide with whalebone. The screed, or frill of the cap, stood a quarter of a yard broad round the face of the wearer. The ribbon, flourishing in puffs and bows about the head, was of the sort called love-ribbon. There was a good deal of it, I may say, a very great deal. Mrs. Yorke wore the cap--it became her; she wore the gown also--it suited her no less.

And opening the door she made visible an ample spread of crimson skirts overflowing the chair at the fireside, and above them a cap more awful than a crown. The cap's frill stood a quarter of a yard broad round the face of the wearer, with a great deal of ribbon. The wearer was Mrs. Yorke.


That great lady was come in a friendly way to take tea with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a favour as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subjects. A higher mark of distinction she could not show--she who in general scorned visiting and tea-drinking, and held cheap and stigmatized as "gossips" every maid and matron of the vicinage.

That great lady was come to take tea with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and rare a favour as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subjects. Mrs. Yorke in general scorned visiting and tea-drinking.


There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore _was_ a favourite with her. She had evinced the fact more than once--evinced it by stopping to speak to her in the churchyard on Sundays; by inviting her, almost hospitably, to come to Briarmains; evinced it to-day by the grand condescension of a personal visit. Her reasons for the preference, as assigned by herself, were that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment, without the least levity of conversation or carriage; also that, being a foreigner, she must feel the want of a friend to countenance her. She might have added that her plain aspect, homely, precise dress, and phlegmatic, unattractive manner were to her so many additional recommendations. It is certain, at least, that ladies remarkable for the opposite qualities of beauty, lively bearing, and elegant taste in attire were not often favoured with her approbation. Whatever gentlemen are apt to admire in women, Mrs. Yorke condemned; and what they overlook or despise, she patronized.

However, Miss Moore was a favourite with her. She had decided that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment, without the least levity; also that, being a foreigner, she must feel the want of a friend. She might have added that her plain appearance, homely dress, and phlegmatic manner were additional recommendations. Certainly ladies of beauty, elegance and lively bearing were not often favoured with her approval.


Caroline advanced to the mighty matron with some sense of diffidence. She knew little of Mrs. Yorke, and, as a parson's niece, was doubtful what sort of a reception she might get. She got a very cool one, and was glad to hide her discomfiture by turning away to take off her bonnet. Nor, upon sitting down, was she displeased to be immediately accosted by a little personage in a blue frock and sash, who started up like some fairy from the side of the great dame's chair, where she had been sitting on a footstool, screened from view by the folds of the wide red gown, and running to Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her arms round her neck and demanded a kiss.

Caroline advanced diffidently to the mighty matron. She knew little of Mrs. Yorke, and, as a parson's niece, was doubtful what sort of a reception she might get. She got a very cool one, and was glad to hide her discomfiture by turning away to take off her bonnet. Upon sitting down, she was immediately accosted by a little personage in a blue frock, who started up from the side of the great dame's chair, where she had been sitting on a footstool, screened from view by the wide red gown. Running to Miss Helstone, she threw her arms round her neck and demanded a kiss.


"My mother is not civil to you," said the petitioner, as she received and repaid a smiling salute, "and Rose there takes no notice of you; it is their way. If, instead of you, a white angel, with a crown of stars, had come into the room, mother would nod stiffly, and Rose never lift her head at all; but I will be your friend--I have always liked you."

"My mother is not civil to you," said this personage, "and Rose there takes no notice of you; it is their way. If a white angel crowned with stars had come into the room, mother would nod stiffly, and Rose never lift her head; but I will be your friend."


"Jessie, curb that tongue of yours, and repress your forwardness!" said Mrs. Yorke.

"Jessie, curb that tongue of yours!" said Mrs. Yorke.


"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie. "Miss Helstone has never done you any harm; why can't you be kind to her? You sit so stiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry--what for? That's just the fashion in which you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar and every other young lady who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut--aut--I have forgotten the word, but it means a machine in the shape of a human being. However, between you, you will drive every soul away from Briarmains; Martin often says so."

"But, mother, you are so frozen!" cried Jessie. "Miss Helstone has never done you any harm; why can't you be kind to her? You sit so stiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry - that's how you treat every young lady who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut - aut - I have forgotten the word, but it means a machine in the shape of a human being."


"I am an automaton? Good! Let me alone, then," said Rose, speaking from a corner where she was sitting on the carpet at the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open on her knee.--"Miss Helstone, how do you do?" she added, directing a brief glance to the person addressed, and then again casting down her gray, remarkable eyes on the book and returning to the study of its pages.

"I am an automaton? Good! Let me alone, then," said Rose, from a corner where she was sitting with a book open on her knee. "Miss Helstone, how do you do?" she added, before again casting down her eyes to study the pages.


Caroline stole a quiet gaze towards her, dwelling on her young, absorbed countenance, and observing a certain unconscious movement of the mouth as she read--a movement full of character. Caroline had tact, and she had fine instinct. She felt that Rose Yorke was a peculiar child--one of the unique; she knew how to treat her. Approaching quietly, she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over her little shoulder at her book. It was a romance of Mrs. Radcliffe's--"The Italian."

Caroline gazed at her young, absorbed countenance, full of character; with fine instinct, she felt that Rose Yorke was a unique child. Approaching quietly, she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over her shoulder at her book. It was a romance of Mrs. Radcliffe's: "The Italian."


Caroline read on with her, making no remark. Presently Rose showed her the attention of asking, ere she turned the leaf, "Are you ready?"

Caroline read on with her, making no remark. Presently Rose asked,


"Do you like it?" inquired Rose ere long.


"Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully taken with it."

"Long ago, when I was a child, I was wonderfully taken with it."


"It seemed to open with such promise--such foreboding of a most strange tale to be unfolded."

"It seemed to open with such promise - such foreboding of a strange tale to be unfolded."


"And in reading it you feel as if you were far away from England--really in Italy--under another sort of sky--that blue sky of the south which travellers describe."

"And in reading it you feel as if you were really in Italy - under another sort of sky.


"It makes me long to travel, Miss Helstone."


"When you are a woman, perhaps, you may be able to gratify your wish."


"I mean to make a way to do so, if one is not made for me. I cannot live always in Briarfield. The whole world is not very large compared with creation. I must see the outside of our own round planet, at least."

"I mean to do so. I cannot live always in Briarfield.


"First this hemisphere where we live; then the other. I am resolved that my life shall be a life. Not a black trance like the toad's, buried in marble; nor a long, slow death like yours in Briarfield rectory."


"Might you not as well be tediously dying as for ever shut up in that glebe-house--a place that, when I pass it, always reminds me of a windowed grave? I never see any movement about the door. I never hear a sound from the wall. I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys. What do you do there?"

"That house always reminds me of a windowed grave. I never see any movement there. I never hear a sound from it, or see any smoke coming from the chimneys. What do you do there?"


"Should I be happy wandering alone in strange countries as you wish to do?"

"Should I be happy wandering alone in strange countries?"


"Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander. Remember, however, that I shall have an object in view; but if you only went on and on, like some enchanted lady in a fairy tale, you might be happier than now. In a day's wandering you would pass many a hill, wood, and watercourse, each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone out or was overcast; as the weather was wet or fair, dark or bright. Nothing changes in Briarfield rectory. The plaster of the parlour ceilings, the paper on the walls, the curtains, carpets, chairs, are still the same."

"Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander. You would pass many a hill, wood, and river, each perpetually changing with the weather. Nothing changes in Briarfield rectory."


"Is change necessary to happiness?" asked Caroline.


"I don't know; but I feel monotony and death to be almost the same."

I feel monotony and death to be almost the same thing."


"But, Rose," pursued Caroline, "I fear a wanderer's life, for me at least, would end like that tale you are reading--in disappointment, vanity, and vexation of spirit."

"But, Rose," pursued Caroline, "I fear a wanderer's life, for me at least, would end like that tale you are reading - in disappointment and vexation of spirit."


"Better to try all things and find all empty than to try nothing and leave your life a blank. To do this is to commit the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin--despicable sluggard!"

"Better to try all things and find all empty, than to try nothing and leave your life a blank."


"Rose," observed Mrs. Yorke, "solid satisfaction is only to be realized by doing one's duty."


"Right, mother! And if my Master has given me ten talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them ten talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall the coin be interred. I will _not_ deposit it in a broken-spouted teapot, and shut it up in a china closet among tea-things. I will _not_ commit it to your work-table to be smothered in piles of woollen hose. I will _not_ prison it in the linen press to find shrouds among the sheets. And least of all, mother" (she got up from the floor)--"least of all will I hide it in a tureen of cold potatoes, to be ranged with bread, butter, pastry, and ham on the shelves of the larder."

"Right, mother! And if my Master has given me ten talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make ten talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall the coin be buried. Not in a broken-spouted teapot, or in a china closet among tea-things. Not in the linen press among shrouds of sheets. And least of all, mother" (she got up from the floor) - "least of all will I hide it in a tureen of cold potatoes in the larder.


She stopped, then went on, "Mother, the Lord who gave each of us our talents will come home some day, and will demand from all an account. The teapot, the old stocking-foot, the linen rag, the willow-pattern tureen will yield up their barren deposit in many a house. Suffer your daughters, at least, to put their money to the exchangers, that they may be enabled at the Master's coming to pay Him His own with usury."

Mother, the Lord who gave each of us our talents will some day demand from all an account. The teapot, the old stocking-foot, the tureen will yield up their barren deposit in many a house. Let your daughters, at least, increase their talents, so that they may pay the Master's His own with interest."


"Rose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told you?"

"Rose, did you bring your sampler, as I told you?"


Rose sat down promptly, and wrought according to orders. After a busy pause of ten minutes, her mother asked, "Do you think yourself oppressed now--a victim?"

Rose sat down promptly, and sewed as ordered. After ten minutes, her mother asked, "Do you think yourself oppressed now - a victim?"


"Yet, as far as I understood your tirade, it was a protest against all womanly and domestic employment."


"You misunderstood it, mother. I should be sorry not to learn to sew. You do right to teach me, and to make me work."


"Even to the mending of your brothers' stockings and the making of sheets?"


"Where is the use of ranting and spouting about it, then?"

"Where is the use of ranting about it, then?"


"Am I to do nothing but that? I will do that, and then I will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say. I am twelve years old at present, and not till I am sixteen will I speak again about talents. For four years I bind myself an industrious apprentice to all you can teach me."

"Am I to do nothing but that? I will do that, and then I will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say. I am twelve years old, and not till I am sixteen will I speak again about talents. For four years I bind myself an industrious apprentice to all you can teach me."


"You see what my daughters are, Miss Helstone," observed Mrs. Yorke; "how precociously wise in their own conceits! 'I would rather this, I prefer that'--such is Jessie's cuckoo song; while Rose utters the bolder cry, 'I _will_, and I will _not_!'"

"You see what my daughters are, Miss Helstone," observed Mrs. Yorke; "how precociously wise in their own idea! 'I would rather this, I prefer that' - such is Jessie's cuckoo song; while Rose utters the bolder cry, 'I will, and I will not!'"


"I render a reason, mother; besides, if my cry is bold, it is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birthday the spirit moves me to deliver one oracle respecting my own instruction and management. I utter it and leave it; it is for you, mother, to listen or not."

"I give a reason, mother; besides, my cry is only heard once a year."


"I would advise all young ladies," pursued Mrs. Yorke, "to study the characters of such children as they chance to meet with before they marry and have any of their own to consider well how they would like the responsibility of guiding the careless, the labour of persuading the stubborn, the constant burden and task of training the best."

"I would advise all young ladies," pursued Mrs. Yorke, "to study the characters of such children before they marry and have any of their own; to consider well how they would like the constant burden and task of training them."


"But with love it need not be so very difficult," interposed Caroline. "Mothers love their children most dearly--almost better than they love themselves."

"But with love it need not be so very difficult," said Caroline. "Mothers love their children almost better than they love themselves."


"Fine talk! very sentimental! There is the rough, practical part of life yet to come for you, young miss."

"Fine talk! very sentimental! The practical part of life is yet to come for you, young miss."


"But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take a little baby into my arms--any poor woman's infant, for instance--I feel that I love that helpless thing quite peculiarly, though I am not its mother. I could do almost anything for it willingly, if it were delivered over entirely to my care--if it were quite dependent on me."

"But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take any woman's baby into my arms, I feel that I love it, though I am not its mother. I could do almost anything for it willingly, if it were dependent on me."


"You _feel_! Yes, yes! I dare say, now. You are led a great deal by your _feelings_, and you think yourself a very sensitive personage, no doubt. Are you aware that, with all these romantic ideas, you have managed to train your features into an habitually lackadaisical expression, better suited to a novel-heroine than to a woman who is to make her way in the real world by dint of common sense?"

"You feel! Yes, I dare say. You are led a great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very sensitive person, no doubt. Are you aware that, with all these romantic ideas, you have managed to train your features into a lackadaisical expression, better suited to a novel-heroine than a woman who is to make her way in the real world by dint of common sense?"


"No; I am not at all aware of that, Mrs. Yorke."

"No; I am not aware of that, Mrs. Yorke."


"Look in the glass just behind you. Compare the face you see there with that of any early-rising, hard-working milkmaid."

"Look in the mirror behind you. Compare the face you see there with that of any hard-working milkmaid."


"My face is a pale one, but it is _not_ sentimental; and most milkmaids, however red and robust they may be, are more stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in the world than I am. I think more, and more correctly, than milkmaids in general do; consequently, where they would often, for want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of reflection, should act judiciously."

"My face is pale, but it is not sentimental; and most milkmaids, however red and robust they may be, are more stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in the world than I am. I think more, and more correctly, than milkmaids in general do. Where they would often act weakly, I should act judiciously."


"Oh no! you would be influenced by your feelings; you would be guided by impulse."

"Oh no! you would be influenced by your feelings."


"Of course I should often be influenced by my feelings. They were given me to that end. Whom my feelings teach me to love I _must_ and _shall_ love; and I hope, if ever I have a husband and children, my feelings will induce me to love them. I hope, in that case, all my impulses will be strong in compelling me to love."

"Of course I should often be influenced by my feelings. They were given me to that end. I hope, if ever I have a husband and children, my feelings will induce me to love them."


Caroline had a pleasure in saying this with emphasis; she had a pleasure in daring to say it in Mrs. Yorke's presence. She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be hurled at her in reply. She flushed, not with anger but excitement, when the ungenial matron answered coolly, "Don't waste your dramatic effects. That was well said--it was quite fine; but it is lost on two women--an old wife and an old maid. There should have been a disengaged gentleman present.--Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behind the curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?"

Caroline had a pleasure in saying this to Mrs. Yorke. She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be hurled at her in reply. She flushed, not with anger but excitement, when the matron answered coolly, "That was well said - it was quite fine; but it is lost on an old wife and an old maid. There should have been a gentleman present. - Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behind the curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?"


Hortense, who during the chief part of the conversation had been in the kitchen superintending the preparations for tea, did not yet quite comprehend the drift of the discourse. She answered, with a puzzled air, that Robert was at Whinbury. Mrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar short laugh.

Hortense, who during much of the conversation had been in the kitchen superintending the preparations for tea, did not understand. She answered, with a puzzled air, that Robert was at Whinbury. Mrs. Yorke laughed her short laugh.


"Straightforward Miss Moore!" said she patronizingly. "It is like you to understand my question so literally and answer it so simply. _Your_ mind comprehends nothing of intrigue. Strange things might go on around you without your being the wiser; you are not of the class the world calls sharp-witted."

"Straightforward Miss Moore!" said she patronizingly. "It is like you to understand my question so literally. You comprehend nothing of intrigue. You are not of the class the world calls sharp-witted."


These equivocal compliments did not seem to please Hortense. She drew herself up, puckered her black eyebrows, but still looked puzzled.

At this, Hortense drew herself up and puckered her black eyebrows, but still looked puzzled.


"I have ever been noted for sagacity and discernment from childhood," she returned; for, indeed, on the possession of these qualities she peculiarly piqued herself.

"I have been noted for sagacity and discernment from childhood," she returned.


"You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound," pursued Mrs. Yorke; "and you have not the benefit of previous experience to aid you in discovering when others plot."

"You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound," pursued Mrs. Yorke; "and you have no experience to aid you in discovering when others plot."


Caroline felt this kind language where the benevolent speaker intended she should feel it--in her very heart. She could not even parry the shafts; she was defenceless for the present. To answer would have been to avow that the cap fitted. Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she sat with troubled, downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figure expressing in its bent attitude and unconscious tremor all the humiliation and chagrin she experienced, felt the sufferer was fair game. The strange woman had a natural antipathy to a shrinking, sensitive character--a nervous temperament; nor was a pretty, delicate, and youthful face a passport to her affections. It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious qualities combined in one individual; still more seldom she found that individual at her mercy, under circumstances in which she could crush her well. She happened this afternoon to be specially bilious and morose--as much disposed to gore as any vicious "mother of the herd." Lowering her large head she made a new charge.

Caroline felt this language where the speaker intended she should feel it - in her very heart. She could not even parry the shafts; to answer would have been to avow that the cap fitted.
Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she sat with troubled, downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, felt the sufferer was fair game. The woman had a natural antipathy to a shrinking, sensitive character; nor was a pretty face a passport to her affections. It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious qualities combined in one individual; still more seldom she found that individual at her mercy, under circumstances in which she could crush her well. Lowering her large head she made a new charge.


"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss Helstone. Such ladies as come to try their life's luck here at Hollow's Cottage may, by a very little clever female artifice, cajole the mistress of the house, and have the game all in their own hands. You are fond of your cousin's society, I dare say, miss?"

"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss Helstone. Such ladies as come to try their life's luck here at Hollow's Cottage may, by a little clever artifice, cajole the mistress of the house, and have the game all in their own hands. You are fond of your cousin's society, I dare say, miss?"


"Hortense is, and always has been, most kind to me."


"Every sister with an eligible single brother is considered most kind by her spinster friends."


"Mrs. Yorke," said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, their blue orbs at the same time clearing from trouble, and shining steady and full, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and its hue turned pale and settled--"Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what you mean?"

"Mrs. Yorke," said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and its hue turned pale - "Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what you mean?"


"To give you a lesson on the cultivation of rectitude, to disgust you with craft and false sentiment."


"Most young ladies of the present day need it. You are quite a modern young lady--morbid, delicate, professing to like retirement; which implies, I suppose, that you find little worthy of your sympathies in the ordinary world. The ordinary world--every-day honest folks--are better than you think them, much better than any bookish, romancing chit of a girl can be who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle the parson's garden wall."

"Most young ladies of the present day need it. You are quite a modern young lady - morbid, delicate, professing to like retirement; which implies, I suppose, that you find little worthy of your sympathies in the ordinary world. The ordinary world - everyday honest folks - are much better than any bookish, romancing chit of a girl who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle's garden wall."


"Consequently of whom you know nothing. Excuse me--indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or not--you have attacked me without provocation; I shall defend myself without apology. Of my relations with my two cousins you are ignorant. In a fit of ill-humour you have attempted to poison them by gratuitous insinuations, which are far more crafty and false than anything with which you can justly charge me. That I happen to be pale, and sometimes to look diffident, is no business of yours; that I am fond of books, and indisposed for common gossip, is still less your business; that I am a 'romancing chit of a girl' is a mere conjecture on your part. I never romanced to you nor to anybody you know. That I am the parson's niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow-minded enough to think it so. You dislike me. You have no just reason for disliking me; therefore keep the expression of your aversion to yourself. If at any time in future you evince it annoyingly, I shall answer even less scrupulously than I have done now."

"Consequently of whom you know nothing. Excuse me - indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or not - you have attacked me without provocation; I shall defend myself without apology. Of my relations with my two cousins you are ignorant. In a fit of ill-humour you have attempted to poison them by insinuations which are far more crafty and false than anything with which you can justly charge me. That I happen to be pale, and sometimes to look diffident, is no business of yours; that I am fond of books, and dislike gossip, is still less your business; that I am a 'romancing chit of a girl' is a mere conjecture on your part. That I am the parson's niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow-minded enough to think it so. You dislike me, but for no just reason; therefore keep the expression of your dislike to yourself. Otherwise I shall answer even less scrupulously than I have done now."


She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She had spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud; but her silver accents thrilled the ear. The speed of the current in her veins was just then as swift as it was viewless.

She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She had spoken clearly, neither fast nor loud; but her silver accents thrilled the ear.


Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof, worded with a severity so simple, dictated by a pride so quiet. Turning coolly to Miss Moore, she said, nodding her cap approvingly, "She has spirit in her, after all.--Always speak as honestly as you have done just now," she continued, "and you'll do."

Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof. Turning coolly to Miss Moore, she said, nodding approvingly, "She has spirit, after all. - Always speak as honestly as you have done just now," she continued, "and you'll do."


"I repel a recommendation so offensive," was the answer, delivered in the same pure key, with the same clear look. "I reject counsel poisoned by insinuation. It is my right to speak as I think proper; nothing binds me to converse as you dictate. So far from always speaking as I have done just now, I shall never address any one in a tone so stern or in language so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult."

"I repel a recommendation so offensive," was the answer, delivered with the same clear look. "I reject counsel poisoned by insinuation. I shall speak as I think proper; not as you dictate. So far from always speaking as I have done just now, I shall never address anyone in a tone so stern or in language so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult."


"Mother, you have found your match," pronounced little Jessie, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify. Rose had heard the whole with an unmoved face. She now said, "No; Miss Helstone is not my mother's match, for she allows herself to be vexed. My mother would wear her out in a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better.--Mother, you have never hurt Miss Keeldar's feelings yet. She wears armour under her silk dress that you cannot penetrate."

"Mother, you have found your match," pronounced little Jessie.
Rose had heard the whole with an unmoved face. She now said, "No; Miss Helstone is not my mother's match, for she allows herself to be vexed. My mother would wear her out in a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better. Mother, you have never hurt Miss Keeldar's feelings yet. She wears armour that you cannot penetrate."


Mrs. Yorke often complained that her children were mutinous. It was strange that with all her strictness, with all her "strong-mindedness," she could gain no command over them. A look from their father had more influence with them than a lecture from her.

Mrs. Yorke often complained that her children were mutinous. It was strange that with all her strictness and "strong-mindedness," she could gain no command over them. A look from their father had more influence than a lecture from her.


Miss Moore--to whom the position of witness to an altercation in which she took no part was highly displeasing, as being an unimportant secondary post--now rallying her dignity, prepared to utter a discourse which was to prove both parties in the wrong, and to make it clear to each disputant that she had reason to be ashamed of herself, and ought to submit humbly to the superior sense of the individual then addressing her. Fortunately for her audience, she had not harangued above ten minutes when Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray called her attention, first to the fact of that damsel having a gilt comb in her hair and a red necklace round her throat, and secondly, and subsequently to a pointed remonstrance, to the duty of making tea. After the meal Rose restored her to good-humour by bringing her guitar and asking for a song, and afterwards engaging her in an intelligent and sharp cross-examination about guitar-playing and music in general.

Miss Moore, now rallying her dignity, prepared to utter a speech which was to prove both parties in the wrong, and to make it clear to each that she should be ashamed of herself, and ought to submit humbly to the superior sense of her hostess. Fortunately Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray called her attention to the duty of making tea. After the meal Rose restored her to good-humour by bringing her guitar and asking for a song, and afterwards engaging her in an intelligent discussion about music.


Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline. Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her, first about religion and then about politics. Jessie was accustomed at home to drink in a great deal of what her father said on these subjects, and afterwards in company to retail, with more wit and fluency than consistency or discretion, his opinions, antipathies, and preferences. She rated Caroline soundly for being a member of the Established Church, and for having an uncle a clergyman. She informed her that she lived on the country, and ought to work for her living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, and eating the bread of idleness in the shape of tithes. Thence Jessie passed to a review of the ministry at that time in office, and a consideration of its deserts. She made familiar mention of the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval. Each of these personages she adorned with a character that might have separately suited Moloch and Belial. She denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington as a "hired butcher."

Jessie, meantime, talked to Caroline, first about religion and then politics. Jessie was accustomed at home to drink in a great deal of what her father said on these subjects, and afterwards in company to repeat his opinions. She berated Caroline soundly for being a member of the Established Church, and for having an uncle who was a clergyman. She informed her that she ought to work for her living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, and eating the bread of idleness. Thence Jessie passed to a review of the ministry, and mentioned Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval as if they were demons. She denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington as a "hired butcher."


Her auditress listened with exceeding edification. Jessie had something of the genius of humour in her nature. It was inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's denunciations in his nervous northern Doric; as hearty a little Jacobin as ever pent a free mutinous spirit in a muslin frock and sash. Not malignant by nature, her language was not so bitter as it was racy, and the expressive little face gave a piquancy to every phrase which held a beholder's interest captive.

It was comic to hear her repeating her sire's denunciations; as hearty a little mutineer as ever wore a muslin frock and sash. Her expressive little face gave a piquancy to every phrase.


Caroline chid her when she abused Lord Wellington; but she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the Prince Regent. Jessie quickly read, in the sparkle of her hearer's eye and the laughter hovering round her lips, that at last she had hit on a topic that pleased. Many a time had she heard the fat "Adonis of fifty" discussed at her father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's comments on the theme--genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire lips.

Caroline chid her when she abused Lord Wellington; but she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the Prince Regent. Jessie quickly read, in the sparkle of her hearer's eye and the laughter hovering round her lips, that she had hit on a topic that pleased.


But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This is an autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud in the sky, but it curtains it from pole to pole. The wind cannot rest; it hurries sobbing over hills of sullen outline, colourless with twilight and mist. Rain has beat all day on that church tower. It rises dark from the stony enclosure of its graveyard. The nettles, the long grass, and the tombs all drip with wet. This evening reminds me too forcibly of another evening some years ago--a howling, rainy autumn evening too--when certain who had that day performed a pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery sat near a wood fire on the hearth of a foreign dwelling. They were merry and social, but they each knew that a gap, never to be filled, had been made in their circle. They knew they had lost something whose absence could never be quite atoned for so long as they lived; and they knew that heavy falling rain was soaking into the wet earth which covered their lost darling, and that the sad, sighing gale was mourning above her buried head. The fire warmed them; life and friendship yet blessed them; but Jessie lay cold, coffined, solitary--only the sod screening her from the storm.

But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This autumn evening, wet and wild, reminds me too forcibly of another howling, rainy evening some years ago, when certain people made a pilgrimage to a new grave in a heretic cemetery. The heavy rain was soaking into the wet earth which covered their lost darling, and the sad, sighing gale was mourning. Jessie lay cold, coffined, solitary - only the earth screening her from the storm.


Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the music lesson and the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit to the cottage, at an hour early enough to ensure her return to Briarmains before the blush of sunset should quite have faded in heaven, or the path up the fields have become thoroughly moist with evening dew.

Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit before the path up the fields should have become thoroughly moist with evening dew.


The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt that she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's cheek, and trip away homeward. If she lingered much later dusk would draw on, and Fanny would be put to the trouble of coming to fetch her. It was both baking and ironing day at the rectory, she remembered--Fanny would be busy. Still, she could not quit her seat at the little parlour window. From no point of view could the west look so lovely as from that lattice with the garland of jessamine round it, whose white stars and green leaves seemed now but gray pencil outlines--graceful in form, but colourless in tint--against the gold incarnadined of a summer evening--against the fire-tinged blue of an August sky at eight o'clock p.m.

The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt that she also ought to go home. If she lingered much later, dusk would draw on, and Fanny would be put to the trouble of coming to fetch her. Still, she could not quit her seat at the little parlour window. Her eyes turned west towards the fire-tinged August sky.


Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-oaks spired up tall. She looked at the close hedge of privet and laurel fencing in the garden; her eyes longed to see something more than the shrubs before they turned from that limited prospect. They longed to see a human figure, of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter the gate. A human figure she at last saw--nay, two. Frederick Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, dangling on his forefinger the keys of the mill. They were going to lock up mill and stables for the night, and then betake themselves home.

Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, and the hedge fencing in the garden, longing to see a human figure, of a certain shape and height, pass the hedge and enter the gate. A human figure she at last saw - nay, two. Frederick Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, carrying the keys of the mill. They were going to lock up for the night, and then go home.


"So must I," thought Caroline, as she half rose and sighed.


"This is all folly--heart-breaking folly," she added. "In the first place, though I should stay till dark there will be no arrival; because I feel in my heart, Fate has written it down in to-day's page of her eternal book, that I am not to have the pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he stepped in this moment, my presence here would be a chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so would turn half my blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill if I put mine into it; his eye would be clouded if I sought its beam. I should look up for that kindling, something I have seen in past days, when my face, or my language, or my disposition had at some happy moment pleased him; I should discover only darkness. I had better go home."

"This is heart-breaking folly. In the first place, even if I should stay till dark there will be no arrival; I feel in my heart that I am not fated to have the pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he stepped in at this moment, my presence here would annoy him, and that would turn my blood to ice. His eye would be clouded with darkness. I had better go home."


She took her bonnet from the table where it lay, and was just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense, directing her attention to a splendid bouquet of flowers in a glass on the same table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them that morning from Fieldhead; and went on to comment on the guests that lady was at present entertaining, on the bustling life she had lately been leading; adding divers conjectures that she did not very well like it, and much wonderment that a person who was so fond of her own way as the heiress did not find some means of sooner getting rid of this _cortge_ of relatives.

She took up her bonnet, and was just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense, directing her attention to a splendid bouquet of flowers in a vase, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them that morning from Fieldhead. She went on to comment on the guests that lady was at present entertaining, expressing her wonder that a person who was so fond of her own way did not find some means of getting rid of all these relatives.


"But they say she actually will not let Mr. Sympson and his family go," she added. "They wanted much to return to the south last week, to be ready for the reception of the only son, who is expected home from a tour. She insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends here in Yorkshire. I dare say she partly does it to oblige Robert and myself."

"But they say she actually will not let Mr. Sympson and his family go," she added. "They wanted to return south last week, to be ready to receive their only son, who is expected home from a tour. She insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends here in Yorkshire. I dare say she partly does it to oblige Robert and myself."


"How to oblige Robert and you?" inquired Caroline.


"Why, my child, you are dull. Don't you know--you must often have heard----"

"Why, my child, you are dull. Don't you know - you must often have heard-"


"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that you told me to boil in treacle--the congfiters, as you call them--is all burnt to the pan."

"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the preserves that you told me to boil in treacle - the congfiters, as you call them - is all burnt to the pan."


"Les confitures! Elles sont brles? Ah, quelle ngligence coupable! Coquine de cuisinire, fille insupportable!"

"Les confitures! Elles sont brles? Ah, quelle ngligence! Fille insupportable!"


And mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large linen apron, and tying it over her black apron, rushed _perdue_ into the kitchen, whence, to speak truth, exhaled an odour of calcined sweets rather strong than savoury.

And mademoiselle rushed into the kitchen, whence came a strong odour of charcoaled sweets.


The mistress and maid had been in full feud the whole day, on the subject of preserving certain black cherries, hard as marbles, sour as sloes. Sarah held that sugar was the only orthodox condiment to be used in that process; mademoiselle maintained--and proved it by the practice and experience of her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother--that treacle, "mlasse," was infinitely preferable. She had committed an imprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the preserving-pan, for her want of sympathy in the nature of its contents had induced a degree of carelessness in watching their confection, whereof the result was--dark and cindery ruin. Hubbub followed; high upbraiding, and sobs rather loud than deep or real.

The mistress and maid had been feuding the whole day on the subject of preserving sour black cherries. Sarah held that sugar should be used; mademoiselle maintained that treacle was far better. She had imprudently left Sarah in charge of the preserving-pan; and the maid's lack of sympathy for its contents had induced a degree of carelessness, whose result was dark and cindery ruin. Hubbub followed; high upbraiding, and sobs more loud than real.


Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was shading her ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under her cottage bonnet, certain that it would not only be useless but unpleasant to stay longer, when, on the sudden opening of the back-door, there fell an abrupt calm in the kitchen. The tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit and bridle. "Was it--was it--Robert?" He often--almost always--entered by the kitchen way on his return from market. No; it was only Joe Scott, who, having hemmed significantly thrice--every hem being meant as a lofty rebuke to the squabbling womankind--said, "Now, I thowt I heerd a crack?"

On the sudden opening of the back-door, there fell an abrupt calm in the kitchen. The tongues were checked. Was it Robert? wondered Caroline. He often entered by the kitchen.
No; it was only Joe Scott, who, having cleared his throat significantly. as a lofty rebuke to the squabbling womankind, said, "Now, I thowt I heerd a crack?


"And," he continued pragmatically, "as t' maister's comed, and as he'll enter through this hoyle, I _con_sidered it desirable to step in and let ye know. A household o' women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out warning. Here he is.--Walk forrard, sir. They war playing up queerly, but I think I've quietened 'em."

As t' maister's comed, I considered it desirable to let ye know. A household o' women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out warning. Here he is. Walk forrard, sir. They war playing up, but I think I've quietened 'em."


Another person, it was now audible, entered. Joe Scott proceeded with his rebukes.

Another person was heard to enter. Joe Scott proceeded with his rebukes.


"What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, thou quean, canst t' not light a candle? It war sundown an hour syne. He'll brak his shins agean some o' yer pots, and tables, and stuff.--Tak tent o' this baking-bowl, sir; they've set it i' yer way, fair as if they did it i' malice."

"What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah, canst t' not light a candle?"


To Joe's observations succeeded a confused sort of pause, which Caroline, though she was listening with both her ears, could not understand. It was very brief. A cry broke it--a sound of surprise, followed by the sound of a kiss; ejaculations, but half articulate, succeeded.

There followed a confused sort of pause, which Caroline, listening hard, could not understand. A cry of surprise broke it, followed by the sound of a kiss, and exclamations.


"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Est-ce que je m'y attendais?" were the words chiefly to be distinguished.


"Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne sur?" inquired another voice--Robert's, certainly.

"Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne sur?" inquired another voice - Robert's, certainly.


Caroline was puzzled. Obeying an impulse the wisdom of which she had not time to question, she escaped from the little parlour, by way of leaving the coast clear, and running upstairs took up a position at the head of the banisters, whence she could make further observations ere presenting herself. It was considerably past sunset now; dusk filled the passage, yet not such deep dusk but that she could presently see Robert and Hortense traverse it.

Caroline was puzzled. She ran upstairs to leave the coast clear, and stopped at the head of the banisters, where she could watch without being seen. It was past sunset now; dusk filled the passage, yet she saw Robert and Hortense cross it.


"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterwards, "venez voir mon frre!"

"Caroline!" called Hortense, "come and see my brother!"


"Strange," commented Miss Helstone, "passing strange! What does this unwonted excitement about such an every-day occurrence as a return from market portend? She has not lost her senses, has she? Surely the burnt treacle has not crazed her?"

"Strange," thought Caroline. "Why this excitement about such an everyday occurrence as a return from market? Surely the burnt treacle has not crazed her?"


She descended in a subdued flutter. Yet more was she fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlour door, and leading her to Robert, who stood in bodily presence, tall and dark against the one window, presented her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as though they had been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual introduction.

She descended in a subdued flutter. She was still more fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlour door, and leading her to Robert, who stood tall and dark against the window, presented her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as though they had been utter strangers.


Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather awkwardly, and turning from her with a stranger's embarrassment, he met the doubtful light from the window. It fell on his face, and the enigma of the dream (a dream it seemed) was at its height. She saw a visage like and unlike--Robert, and no Robert.

Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather awkwardly, and as he turned from her with a stranger's embarrassment, the dim light from the window fell on his face. The enigma of the dream was at its height. She saw a visage like and unlike - Robert, and no Robert.


"What is the matter?" said Caroline. "Is my sight wrong? Is it my cousin?"

"Is my sight wrong?" said Caroline. "Is it my cousin?"


"Certainly it is your cousin," asserted Hortense.


Then who was this now coming through the passage--now entering the room? Caroline, looking round, met a new Robert--the real Robert, as she felt at once.

Then who was this now coming through the passage - now entering the room? Caroline, looking round, met a new Robert - the real Robert, as she felt at once.


"Well," said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished face, "which is which?"

"Well," said he, smiling at her astonished face, "which is which?"


He laughed. "I believe it is _me_. And do you know who _he_ is? You never saw him before, but you have heard of him."

He laughed. "I believe it is me. And do you know who he is? You have heard of him."


"It _can_ be only one person--your brother, since it is so like you; my other cousin, Louis."

"It can only be your brother; my cousin Louis."


"Clever little dipus! you would have baffled the Sphinx! But now, see us together.--Change places; change again, to confuse her, Louis.--Which is the old love now, Lina?"

"Now, see us together. - Change places, and again, Louis. Which is the old love now, Lina?"


"As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak! You should have told Hortense to ask. But you are not so much alike. It is only your height, your figure, and complexion that are so similar."

"As if it were possible to make a mistake when you speak! But you are not so much alike. It is only your height, your figure, and complexion that are so similar."


"And I am Robert, am I not?" asked the newcomer, making a first effort to overcome what seemed his natural shyness.

"And I am Robert, am I not?" asked the newcomer, making an effort to overcome what seemed his natural shyness.


Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive ray from her eye beamed on the real Robert. It said much.

Caroline shook her head gently. Her eye beamed softly on the real Robert, saying much.


She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon. Robert himself was peremptory in obliging her to remain. Glad, simple, and affable in her demeanour (glad for this night, at least), in light, bright spirits for the time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to be willingly parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally rather a grave, still, retiring man; but the Caroline of this evening, which was not (as you know, reader) the Caroline of every day, thawed his reserve, and cheered his gravity soon. He sat near her and talked to her. She already knew his vocation was that of tuition. She learned now he had for some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had been travelling with him, and had accompanied him to the north. She inquired if he liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite or license further question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. She thought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face as Louis's; for he _had_ a sensible face, though not handsome, she considered, when seen near Robert's. She turned to make the comparison. Robert was leaning against the wall, a little behind her, turning over the leaves of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the same time, to the dialogue between her and Louis.

She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon. Robert insisted she remain. Glad, simple, and in light, bright spirits for the time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to be willingly parted with. Louis seemed naturally rather a grave, retiring man; but the Caroline of this evening, which was not the Caroline of every day, thawed his reserve. He sat near her and talked to her.
She already knew he was a tutor; she learned now that he had for some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son; that he had been travelling with him, and had accompanied him here. She inquired if he liked his post, but got a look in reply which did not invite further question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. She thought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face; for Louis had a sensible face, though not so handsome as Robert's. She turned to compare them.


"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself. "I see now it is Hortense Louis resembles, not Robert."

"How could I think them alike?" she asked herself. "It is Hortense Louis resembles, not Robert."


And this was in part true. He had the shorter nose and longer upper lip of his sister rather than the fine traits of his brother. He had her mould of mouth and chin--all less decisive, accurate, and clear than those of the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate and reflective, could scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, in sitting near and looking up at him, that a slower and probably a more benignant nature than that of the elder Moore shed calm on your impressions.

This was in part true. He had a shorter nose and less decisive mouth and chin than the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate, could scarcely be called prompt. You felt that he had a slower and probably a more benignant nature than the elder Moore.


Robert--perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandered towards and dwelt upon him, though he had neither met nor answered it--put down the book of engravings, and approaching, took a seat at her side. She resumed her conversation with Louis, but while she talked to him her thoughts were elsewhere. Her heart beat on the side from which her face was half averted. She acknowledged a steady, manly, kindly air in Louis; but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so near him--though he was silent, though he did not touch so much as her scarf-fringe or the white hem of her dress--affected her like a spell. Had she been obliged to speak to him _only_, it would have quelled, but, at liberty to address another, it excited her. Her discourse flowed freely; it was gay, playful, eloquent. The indulgent look and placid manner of her auditor encouraged her to ease; the sober pleasure expressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature. She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and as Robert was a spectator, the consciousness contented her. Had he been called away, collapse would at once have succeeded stimulus.

Robert - perhaps aware of Caroline's glance - came over and took a seat at her side. She resumed her conversation with Louis, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her heart beat on the side from which her face was half averted. She acknowledged a steady, manly, kindly air in Louis; but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so near him, though he was silent, affected her like a spell. Had she been obliged to speak to him only, it would have quelled her, but, at liberty to address another, it excited her. Her discourse flowed freely; it was gay, playful, eloquent. The sober pleasure expressed by her listener's smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature. She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage.


But her enjoyment was not long to shine full-orbed; a cloud soon crossed it.


Hortense, who for some time had been on the move ordering supper, and was now clearing the little table of some books, etc., to make room for the tray, called Robert's attention to the glass of flowers, the carmine and snow and gold of whose petals looked radiant indeed by candlelight.

Hortense, who was now clearing the little table to make room for the supper-tray, called Robert's attention to the vase of flowers.


"They came from Fieldhead," she said, "intended as a gift to you, no doubt. We know who is the favourite there; not I, I'm sure."


It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest--a sign that her spirits were at high-water mark indeed.

It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest - a sign that her spirits were high indeed.


"We are to understand, then, that Robert is the favourite?" observed Louis.


"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "Robert--c'est tout ce qu'il y a de plus prcieux au monde; ct de lui le reste du genre humain n'est que du rebut.--N'ai-je pas raison, mon enfant?" she added, appealing to Caroline.

"The most precious in the world," replied Hortense; "beside him the rest of the human race is nothing. Am I not right, my child?" she added, appealing to Caroline.


Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her beacon was quenched. Her star withdrew as she spoke.

Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her star withdrew as she spoke.


"When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline did not examine. She discovered that it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not even Robert could detain her now.

"When you have an opportunity, ask her," was the quiet answer. Caroline discovered that it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not even Robert could detain her now.


Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Being a quiet man, he endured it better than most men would. Having a large world of his own in his own head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still corner of the real world very patiently.

Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Having a large world in his own head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still corner of the real world very patiently.


How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but Moore--Miss Keeldar, the whole family of the Sympsons, even Henry--are gone to Nunnely. Sir Philip would have them come; he wished to make them acquainted with his mother and sisters, who are now at the priory. Kind gentleman as the baronet is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much sooner have made an appointment with the ghost of the Earl of Huntingdon to meet him, and a shadowy ring of his merry men, under the canopy of the thickest, blackest, oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather have appointed tryst with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among the wet and weedy relics of that ruined sanctuary of theirs, mouldering in the core of the wood. Louis Moore longs to have something near him to-night; but not the boy-baronet, nor his benevolent but stern mother, nor his patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.

How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but Moore are gone to Nunnely. Sir Philip wished them to meet his mother and sisters, who are now at the priory. The kind baronet asked the tutor too; but the tutor would rather have arranged to meet a ghost in the middle of Nunnely forest.


This night is not calm; the equinox still struggles in its storms. The wild rains of the day are abated; the great single cloud disparts and rolls away from heaven, not passing and leaving a sea all sapphire, but tossed buoyant before a continued, long-sounding, high-rushing moonlight tempest. The moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale, as glad as if she gave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion will watch for his goddess to-night. There are no flocks out on the mountains; and it is well, for to-night she welcomes olus.

This night is not calm, although the wild rains have abated. The sky is tossed by a high-rushing moonlight tempest. The moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale, as if she gave herself to his fierce caress with love.


Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, heard the storm roar round the other gable and along the hall-front. This end was sheltered. He wanted no shelter; he desired no subdued sounds or screened position.

Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, hears the storm roar along the hall-front. He wants no shelter; he desires no subdued sounds.


"All the parlours are empty," said he. "I am sick at heart of this cell."

"I am sick at heart of this cell," says he.


He left it, and went where the casements, larger and freer than the branch-screened lattice of his own apartment, admitted unimpeded the dark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the stirring and sweeping vision of the autumn night-sky. He carried no candle; unneeded was lamp or fire. The broad and clear though cloud-crossed and fluctuating beam of the moon shone on every floor and wall.

He leaves it, and goes where the windows, larger than those in his apartment, admit the sweeping vision of the autumn night-sky. He carries no candle; moonbeams shine on every floor and wall.


Moore wanders through all the rooms. He seems following a phantom from parlour to parlour. In the oak room he stops. This is not chill, and polished, and fireless like the _salon_. The hearth is hot and ruddy; the cinders tinkle in the intense heat of their clear glow; near the rug is a little work-table, a desk upon it, a chair near it.

Moore wanders through all the rooms. He seems following a phantom from parlour to parlour. In the oak room he stops. This is not chill and fireless like the salon. The hearth is hot and ruddy; the cinders tinkle in the intense heat; near the rug is a little work-table, a desk and a chair.


Does the vision Moore has tracked occupy that chair? You would think so, could you see him standing before it. There is as much interest now in his eye, and as much significance in his face, as if in this household solitude he had found a living companion, and was going to speak to it.

Does the vision Moore has tracked occupy that chair? You would think so, if you could see him standing before it with interest in his eye.


He makes discoveries. A bag--a small satin bag--hangs on the chair-back. The desk is open, the keys are in the lock. A pretty seal, a silver pen, a crimson berry or two of ripe fruit on a green leaf, a small, clean, delicate glove--these trifles at once decorate and disarrange the stand they strew. Order forbids details in a picture--she puts them tidily away; but details give charm.

He makes discoveries. A small satin bag hangs on the chair-back. The desk is open, the keys are in the lock. A pretty seal, a silver pen, a crimson berry or two on a green leaf, a small, clean glove - these trifles at once decorate and disarrange the picture.


"Her mark," he said. "Here she has been--careless, attractive thing!--called away in haste, doubtless, and forgetting to return and put all to rights. Why does she leave fascination in her footprints? Whence did she acquire the gift to be heedless and never offend? There is always something to chide in her, and the reprimand never settles in displeasure on the heart, but, for her lover or her husband, when it had trickled a while in words, would naturally melt from his lips in a kiss. Better pass half an hour in remonstrating with her than a day in admiring or praising any other woman alive. Am I muttering? soliloquizing? Stop that."

"Her mark," he said. "Here she has been - careless, attractive thing! - called away in haste, and forgetting to put all to rights. Why does she leave fascination in her footprints? She is heedless - there is always something to chide in her, but she never offends. Any reprimand from her lover or her husband would naturally melt from his lips in a kiss. Better pass half an hour in remonstrating with her than a day in praising any other woman alive. Am I muttering? Stop that."


He did stop it. He stood thinking, and then he made an arrangement for his evening's comfort.


He dropped the curtains over the broad window and regal moon. He shut out sovereign and court and starry armies; he added fuel to the hot but fast-wasting fire; he lit a candle, of which there were a pair on the table; he placed another chair opposite that near the workstand; and then he sat down. His next movement was to take from his pocket a small, thick book of blank paper, to produce a pencil, and to begin to write in a cramp, compact hand. Come near, by all means, reader. Do not be shy. Stoop over his shoulder fearlessly, and read as he scribbles.

 closed the curtains. He added fuel to the fire; he lit a candle, and placed another chair at the desk; and he sat down.
Taking from his pocket a small notebook and a pencil, he began to write in a cramped, compact hand. Come near, reader. Stoop over his shoulder, and read as he scribbles.


"It is nine o'clock; the carriage will not return before eleven, I am certain. Freedom is mine till then; till then I may occupy her room, sit opposite her chair, rest my elbow on her table, have her little mementoes about me.

"It is nine o'clock; the carriage will not return before eleven. Freedom is mine till then; I may occupy her room, with her little mementoes about me.