"Ay! ay! Your tenant--so he is. You have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"

"Ay! ay! Your tenant. You have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"


"I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman and something more. I am an esquire! Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me a man's name; I hold a man's position. It is enough to inspire me with a touch of manhood; and when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian--that Grard Moore--before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike. You must choose me for your churchwarden, Mr. Helstone, the next time you elect new ones. They ought to make me a magistrate and a captain of yeomanry. Tony Lumpkin's mother was a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Why shouldn't I be?"

"I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer a girl. I am an esquire! Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my title. They gave me a man's name; I hold a man's position. And when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian - that Grard Moore - before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike.


"With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisition on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatures with my name. But you were speaking of Moore?"


"Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, to know what to think of him, whether to like him or not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might be proud--and proud of him I am, in that sense; but as a neighbour, what is he? Again and again I have entreated Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades returning a direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr. Helstone, and pronounce at once. Do you like him?"

But I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, whether to like him or not. I have entreated Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still avoids returning a direct answer. Do you like him, Mr. Helstone?"


"Not at all, just now. His name is entirely blotted from my good books."


"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have spoken just then. Having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not apropos to do it now. She felt this with nervous acuteness as soon as she had spoken, and coloured to the eyes.

"My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice of Caroline. At once she felt with nervous acuteness that she had better not have spoken, and coloured to the eyes.


"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.


"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector--"narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no patience with him."

"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector; "narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no patience with him."


"The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked that only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?"

"The war hurts his trade. He said that yesterday. What other objection have you to him?"


"He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."

"He looks the gentleman," pursued Shirley, "and it pleases me to think he is such."


Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower in her bouquet, and answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley, hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed an arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes.

Caroline, shredding a flower, answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley flashed an arch, searching glance at her.


"_You_ are his friend, at any rate," she said. "You defend him in his absence."

"You are his friend, at any rate," she said.


"I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt reply. "Robert Moore is my cousin."


"Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just give me a sketch of his character."

"Oh, then you can tell me all about him. Give me a sketch of his character."


Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this demand was made. She could not, and did not, attempt to comply with it. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who proceeded to address sundry questions to Mr. Helstone regarding a family or two in the neighbourhood, with whose connections in the south she said she was acquainted. Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face. She did not renew her interrogations, but returning to her flowers, proceeded to choose a nosegay for the rector. She presented it to him as he took leave, and received the homage of a salute on the hand in return.

Embarrassment seized Caroline. She could not, and did not, attempt to comply. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who asked Mr. Helstone about various families in the neighbourhood, with whose connections she was acquainted.
Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone. She did not renew her interrogations, but proceeded to make a nosegay of flowers for the rector. She presented it to him as he left.


"Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.


"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.--"Mrs. Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden in perspective, this captain of yeomanry, this young squire of Briarfield, in a word. Don't let him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting; especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."

"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone. "Mrs. Pryor, take care of this young squire of Briarfield. Don't let him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting; especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the Hollow."


"I like a descent," said Shirley; "I like to clear it rapidly; and especially I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."

"I like a descent," said Shirley; "and I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."


"Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are each admirable in its way."

"Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are each admirable in their way."


"The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured drawing-room. I adore the counting-house."


"And the trade? The cloth, the greasy wool, the polluting dyeing-vats?"

"And the trade? The greasy wool, the polluting dyeing-vats?"


"The trade is to be thoroughly respected."


"I am glad to hear you say so. I thought the tradesman looked heroic."


Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as she thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the tilt.

Mischief and glee sparkled all over her face as she bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the contest.


"Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your veins. Why are you so fond of trade?"

"Captain Keeldar, why are you so fond of trade?"


"Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow."


"Don't enter into partnership--that's all."

"Don't enter into partnership - that's all."


"You've put it into my head! you've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving her hand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's, she vanished within the porch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.

"You've put it into my head!" she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving her white hand, she vanished within the porch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the arched gateway.


The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in gray rain-clouds--gray they would have been by day; by night they looked sable. Malone was not a man given to close observation of nature; her changes passed, for the most part, unnoticed by him. He could walk miles on the most varying April day and never see the beautiful dallying of earth and heaven--never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, making them smile clear in green light, or when a shower wept over them, hiding their crests with the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. He did not, therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared--a muffled, streaming vault, all black, save where, towards the east, the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the horizon--with the same sky on an unclouded frosty night. He did not trouble himself to ask where the constellations and the planets were gone, or to regret the "black-blue" serenity of the air-ocean which those white islets stud, and which another ocean, of heavier and denser element, now rolled below and concealed. He just doggedly pursued his way, leaning a little forward as he walked, and wearing his hat on the back of his head, as his Irish manner was. "Tramp, tramp," he went along the causeway, where the road boasted the privilege of such an accommodation; "splash, splash," through the mire-filled cart ruts, where the flags were exchanged for soft mud. He looked but for certain landmarks--the spire of Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-and-water. In a strange place he would instantly have realized the dream; but the company assembled in that kitchen were Mr. Helstone's own parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.

The evening was pitch dark: star and moon were quenched in black rain-clouds. Malone was not an observer of nature; he could walk miles and never notice when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, or when a shower wept over them. He did not, therefore, observe the black vault of the sky, with the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks throwing a lurid shimmer on the eastern horizon. He just tramped doggedly along the causeway, splashing through the mire-filled cart ruts. He looked only for certain landmarks - the spire of Briarfield Church, and the lights of Redhouse Inn.
When he reached the inn, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oak settle, nearly drew the curate from his course. He thought longingly of whisky-and-water; but the company in the inn were Mr. Helstone's parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.


The highroad was now to be quitted, as the remaining distance to Hollow's Mill might be considerably reduced by a short cut across fields. These fields were level and monotonous. Malone took a direct course through them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one building here, and that seemed large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick, lofty stack of chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark; not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still; the rain running from the eaves, and the rather wild but very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys and through the boughs were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.

He now left the high road to take a short cut to Hollow's Mill across level fields, jumping hedge and wall. He passed only one building here; large and hall-like, though irregular. You could see a high gable, then a long front, and a lofty stack of chimneys. It was dark; not a candle shone from any window. It was absolutely still. The rain and the low whistle of the wind were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.


This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in a rapid descent. Evidently a vale lay below, through which you could hear the water run. One light glimmered in the depth. For that beacon Malone steered.

Beyond this building, the fields descended rapidly. You could hear the water run in a vale below: one light glimmered in the depth. Malone steered towards it.


He came to a little white house--you could see it was white even through this dense darkness--and knocked at the door. A fresh-faced servant opened it. By the candle she held was revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crimson baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.

He came to a little white house - white even through this dense darkness - and knocked at the door. A servant opened it. By her candle he saw a passage, leading to two doors and a narrow stair with a strip of crimson carpet. The little interior looked clean and fresh.


"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head at the same time was apparent. It might not be the head of a goddess--indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the temples quite forbade that supposition--but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet Malone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof, and saying, "I'll go to him," hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.

"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked a female voice, and a female head appeared. It might not be the head of a goddess - indeed, screws of curl-paper quite forbade that idea - but neither was it the head of a Gorgon, as Malone seemed to think. He shrank bashfully back into the rain, and saying, "I'll go to him," hurried down a short lane towards a huge black mill.


The work-hours were over; the "hands" were gone. The machinery was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knocked at another door, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with which he beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.

The work-hours were over; the "hands", or workers, were gone. The machinery was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round it. Somewhere in its great sooty flank he found a chink of light; he knocked at another door, using his shillelagh to beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned.


"Is it Joe Scott? What news of the wagons, Joe?"


"No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me."

"No; it's myself. Mr. Helstone sent me."


"Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice in uttering this name had the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued, politely but a little formally,--

"Oh! Mr. Malone." The voice had the slightest possible tone of disappointment. After a moment's pause it continued, politely but formally:


"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you so far. There was no necessity--I told him so--and on such a night; but walk forwards."

"I beg you will come in, Mr. Malone. I regret Mr. Helstone should have troubled you. There was no need - I told him so."


Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room within--very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last hour, had been striving to penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; but except for its excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green-painted chairs seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the stone-coloured walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of machinery, etc., completed the furniture of the place.

Malone followed the speaker into a light room - very bright indeed it seemed, after the darkness; but except for its excellent fire, and an elegant lamp on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was carpetless; the stiff-backed chairs might have come from some farm-house. The only other furnishings were a desk, the table, and some framed plans for buildings and machinery.


Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone, who, when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost within the bars of the red grate.

Malone hung up his wet coat and hat, drew one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost against the grate.


"Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; and all snug to yourself."

"Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore; all snug to yourself."


"Yes, but my sister would be glad to see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house."


"Oh no! The ladies are best alone, I never was a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you, Mr. Moore?"

"Oh, no! I never was a lady's man, not like my friend Sweeting."


"Sweeting! Which of them is that? The gentleman in the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?"

"Sweeting! Which one is that?" asked Moore. "The one with the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?"


"The little one--he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"

"The little one - the cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha! ha!"


"Better be generally in love with all than specially with one, I should think, in that quarter."

"Better be in love with all than specially with one, I should think, in that family."


"But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named--which do you think?"

"But he is specially in love with one - which one do you think?"


With a queer, quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course, or Harriet."

With a quiet smile Mr. Moore replied, "Dora, of course."


"Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess. But what made you hit on those two?"


"Because they are the tallest, the handsomest, and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is but a little slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast."


"You are right; Dora it is. But he has no chance, has he, Moore?"


"What has Mr. Sweeting besides his curacy?"


This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly. He laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.


"What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eyeglass. That's what he has."

"What has Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or rather, his flute. He has a watch, ring, and eyeglass. That's what he has."


"How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?"

"How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns?"


"Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. I'll roast him for his presumption. But no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a large house."

"Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him that next time I see him. But old Christopher Sykes is rich, is he not?"


"Sykes carries on an extensive concern."


"Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth, and in these times would be about as likely to think of drawing money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I should be to dream of pulling down the cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large as Fieldhead."

But he would be about as likely to take money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I should be to pull down the cottage there, and build a house as large as Fieldhead."


"Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day?"


"No. Perhaps that I _was_ about to effect some such change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that or sillier things."


"That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease (I thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-bye, to-night, as I passed it), and that it was your intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as mistress--to be married, in short, ha! ha! Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. You said she was the handsomest."

That you were going to rent Fieldhead (I thought it looked dismal tonight, as I passed it), and that you intended to settle a Miss Sykes there as your wife, ha! ha! Now, which is it?"


"I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every marriageable single woman by turns in the district. Now it was the two Misses Wynns--first the dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss Armitage; then the mature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows. I visit nowhere; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr. Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a call in their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other things than courtships, establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills we can't run, the perverse course of events generally, which we cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as love-making, etc."

"I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assigned me every single woman in the district by turns. First it was the two Misses Wynne; then Miss Armitage; then Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders all the tribe of the Misses Sykes - why, God knows. I visit nowhere; I do not seek female company. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to call on Sykes or Pearson in their counting-houses, where we discuss not courtship, but the cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ, and the mills we can't run."


"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage--I mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment--two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! But an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in consonance with dignity of views and permanency of solid interests, is not so bad--eh?"

"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one notion I hate, it is that of a sentimental marriage - two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their poverty by some fantastic tie of feeling. Humbug! But an advantageous connection is not so bad - eh?"


"No," responded Moore, in an absent manner. The subject seemed to have no interest for him; he did not pursue it. After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.

"No," responded Moore absently. The subject seemed to have no interest for him. After gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he suddenly turned his head.


Rising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened. He soon closed it. "It is only the sound of the wind rising," he remarked, "and the rivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now."

He went to open the window, and listened. "It is only the wind rising, and the stream rushing. I expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now."


"Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this new machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."

"Seriously, do you suppose that putting in this new machinery will bring you into danger?" inquired Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."


"I only wish the machines--the frames--were safe here, and lodged within the walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy the frame-breakers. Let them only pay me a visit and take the consequences. My mill is my castle."

"I only wish the machines - the frames - were safe here, within the walls of this mill. Once in place, I defy the frame-breakers. My mill is my castle."


"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone, in a profound vein of reflection. "I almost wish a party would call upon you to-night; but the road seemed extremely quiet as I came along. I saw nothing astir."

"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone. "I almost wish some would call upon you tonight; but the road seemed extremely quiet. I saw nothing astir."


"There would be nothing on that road. It is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies."


"What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. There is only this difference: most of the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fire and burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."

"What these fellows have done to others they may do to me. But most of the manufacturers seem paralysed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his place was burned to the ground, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit to a ferret. Now I should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."


"Helstone says these three are your gods; that the 'Orders in Council' are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions."


"Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me. They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects."


"I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off."

"I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. My warehouse is piled to the roof, since the Orders in Council cut off the American market.


Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this sort. He began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.


"And then to think," continued Mr. Moore who seemed too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's _ennui_--"to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be 'having a family.' Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, "I believe women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."

And to think that these ridiculous gossips will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to court some young lady, and go visiting. Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off and added, more calmly, "I believe women think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."


"Of course--of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.

"Of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." He looked impatiently round, as if something was lacking.


"Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment after your wet walk. I forget hospitality."

"Mr. Malone," said Moore, "you must require refreshment after your wet walk."


"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.

"Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore opened a cupboard.


"It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"

"I keep food and drink here, for I often spend the evening here alone, and sleep in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"


"Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."


"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices in?"

"There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly."


"Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please."

"Never fear. Hand me a knife and fork, please."


The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle--still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard--filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.

The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. On the table Moore placed plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He filled a small copper kettle from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him away.


"Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"


"No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."

"No; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."


"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man--whew! how the fat spits! it has burnt my hand--destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore--there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy--you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."

"You have your household in proper order," observed Malone approvingly, as he turned the mutton chops. "You are not under petticoat government, like poor Sweeting. Now you and I, Moore - there's a fine chop for you, full of gravy - you and I will have no grey mares in our stables when we marry."


"I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"

"I never think about it. If the grey mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"


"The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"


"There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact."

"There is a glassful. When Joe Scott and his assistants return they shall have a share, provided they bring the frames intact."


Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of this same host. I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.

Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained quiet as before. I shall try to sketch him as he sits at table.


He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appears that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable--not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a certain sedate charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at home--patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young--not more than thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking displeases. He has an outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.

You would probably call him, at first view, a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, and foreign-looking, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, clear and regular; but they hold an anxious expression and have a somewhat haggard appearance. His eyes are large, and grave, and grey; they are searching and thoughtful rather than genial. When he smiles, his face is agreeable - not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but it suggests a considerate nature, patient and forbearing. He is not more than thirty; his figure is tall and slender. He has an outlandish accent, which grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.


Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points--patriotism for one; it is likely that he was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate his individual person from any community amidst which his lot might temporarily happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the interests of Robert Grard Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded the said Grard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr. Moore's hereditary calling: the Grards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the uncertainties, the involvements, of business had come upon them; disastrous speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house, and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Grard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting her father Constantine Grard's share in the business. She inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the liabilities of the firm; and these liabilities, though duly set aside by a composition with creditors, some said her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy, and that he aspired one day to discharge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Grard and Moore on a scale at least equal to its former greatness. It was even supposed that he took by-past circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passed at the side of a saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched and blighted by the pitiless descent of the storm, could painfully impress the mind, _his_ probably was impressed in no golden characters.

Mr. Moore, indeed, was scarcely half a Briton. He came of foreign ancestry by the mother's side, and had grown up on foreign soil. He cared little for patriotism; he did not attach himself to political parties, to sects, or even to customs. He had a tendency to withdraw from any community he happened to be living in, and considered the interests of Robert Grard Moore to be more relevant to him than any general philanthropy.
Trade was Mr. Moore's calling: the Grards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy, but the uncertainties of business had loosened the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had fallen, a total ruin. In its fall was involved the Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp house: one of the Antwerp partners, Robert Moore, had married Hortense Grard, who was to inherit her father's share in the business. She inherited only debts - which her son Robert accepted, in his turn, as a legacy, saying that one day he would discharge them, and rebuild the fallen house of Grard and Moore.


If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view, it was not in his power to employ great means for its attainment. He was obliged to be content with the day of small things. When he came to Yorkshire, he--whose ancestors had owned warehouses in this seaport, and factories in that inland town, had possessed their town-house and their country-seat--saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in an out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard, and everything was dear) of the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a minor.

If, however, he had a great aim of restoration, he had no money to attain it. When he came to Yorkshire, he - whose ancestors had owned warehouses and factories, a town-house and a country-seat - saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill in an out-of-the-way district; and to take an adjoining cottage to live in, along with a few acres of the steep, rugged land that lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at a somewhat high rent (for times were hard, and everything was dear) from the Fieldhead estate.


At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived but two years in the district, during which period he had at least proved himself possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy cottage was converted into a neat, tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had made garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with Flemish, exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, he had from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its arrangements and appointments. His aim had been to effect a radical reform, which he had executed as fast as his very limited capital would allow; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent check on his progress, was a restraint which galled his spirit sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on. "Forward" was the device stamped upon his soul; but poverty curbed him. Sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth when the reins were drawn very tight.

At the time this history commences, Robert Moore had lived two years in the district. The dingy cottage had been converted into a neat, tasteful residence: part of the rough land had been made into a garden, which he cultivated with singular care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, inefficient and out of date, he had from the first held its arrangements in contempt. He aimed for a radical reform, which he had carried out as fast as his limited funds would allow; and the shortage of those funds, and of progress, was a restraint which galled him sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on.


In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or was not prejudicial to others. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a resident of the neighbourhood, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where those to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and in this negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on whom the starving poor of Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.

Not being a native, he did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself where the jobless found daily bread; and in this negligence he only resembled thousands of others.


The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history, and especially in the history of the northern provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all involved therein. England, if not weary, was worn with long resistance--yes, and half her people were weary too, and cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold their birthright.

The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in British history. War with Napoleon was at its height: all Europe was involved. England was worn with long resistance, and her weary people cried out for peace on any terms. National honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have sold their birthright.


The "Orders in Council," provoked by Napoleon's Milan and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had, by offending America, cut off the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils, Portugal, Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At this crisis certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple manufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its climax. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing town, when a gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, the furniture thrown into the streets, and the family forced to flee for their lives, some local measures were or were not taken by the local magistracy. A ringleader was detected, or more frequently suffered to elude detection; newspaper paragraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost that inheritance--who could not get work, and consequently could not get wages, and consequently could not get bread--they were left to suffer on, perhaps inevitably left. It would not do to stop the progress of invention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be terminated; efficient relief could not be raised. There was no help then; so the unemployed underwent their destiny--ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.

The "Orders in Council," forbidding neutral powers to trade with France, had offended America, the principal market of the Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were glutted, and would receive no more wool.
At this crisis, inventions in machinery were introduced into the northern factories, which, greatly reducing the number of hands needed, threw thousands out of work, and left them penniless. A bad harvest supervened. Distress reached its climax. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under the hills of the northern counties.
But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot broke out, when a mill was burnt down, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, and the family forced to flee, few measures were taken. A ringleader was detected, or more frequently escaped detection; newspaper paragraphs were written, and there the thing stopped.
As to the sufferers, who could not get work, and consequently could not buy food - they were left to suffer on. It would not do to stop the progress of invention. There was no help; so the unemployed ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.


Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines which they believed took their bread from them; they hated the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present to do, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Grard Moore, in his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going progressist, the man most abominated. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when he believed the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient thing; and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in his counting-house waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's coming and company were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alone; for he liked a silent, sombre, unsafe solitude. His watchman's musket would have been company enough for him; the full-flowing beck in the den would have delivered continuously the discourse most genial to his ear.

Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines; they hated the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Grard Moore, as a semi-foreigner and progressive mill-owner, was the man most abominated.
And it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament to be hated, especially when he believed the thing for which he was hated to be right. It was with a sense of warlike excitement that he sat in his counting-house on this night, awaiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's presence was unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alone, with his musket for company.


With the queerest look in the world had the manufacturer for some ten minutes been watching the Irish curate, as the latter made free with the punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another vision came between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.

For some ten minutes, Moore had been watching the Irish curate make free with the punch, when suddenly his steady grey eye changed. He raised his hand.


"Chut!" he said in his French fashion, as Malone made a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put his hat on, and went out at the counting-house door.

"Chut!" he said in his French fashion. He listened a moment, then rose and went out.


The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water yet rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a flood in the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound, very distant but yet dissimilar, broken and rugged--in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. The big wagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.

The night was still, dark, and stagnant: the water rushed on full and fast, sounding like a flood in the silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound, very distant, broken and rugged - a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road. He lit a lantern, walked down the mill-yard, and opened the gates. The wagons were coming; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and water. Moore hailed them.


Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear the inquiry. He did not answer it.

Probably Joe Scott was still too distant to hear. He did not answer.


"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore, when the elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.

"Is all right, I say?" again asked Moore.


Some one jumped out from the foremost wagon into the road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."

Some one jumped out from the first wagon into the road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We've smashed 'em."


And there was a run. The wagons stood still; they were now deserted.

And there was a run. The wagons stood deserted.


"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. There was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.

"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern and looked into the vehicles. They held neither man nor machinery; they were empty and abandoned.


Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears which to-night had been expected. Speculations most important to his interests depended on the results to be wrought by them. Where were they?

Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery. He had risked the last of his money on the purchase of these frames. Where were they?


The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. How did the catastrophe affect him? By the light of the lantern he held were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile--the smile the man of determined spirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where this determined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strain is to be made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and even motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and reflecting.

The words "we've smashed 'em" rang in his ears. His features relaxed into a singular smile - the smile a determined man wears when his spirit feels a demand on its strength, which it must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and motionless; for he knew not what to say nor do. He placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, reflecting.


An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him presently look up. His eye in the moment caught the gleam of something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of the lantern this proved to be a folded paper--a billet. It bore no address without; within was the superscription:--

An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him look up. His eye caught the gleam of something white attached to the harness. This proved to be a folded note. It read:


We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was very peculiar, but translate it into legible English. It ran thus:--


"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children to go home to when they have done this deed. If you get new machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear from us again. Beware!"

"Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have starving wives and children. If you get new machines, you shall hear from us again. Beware!"


"Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."

"Hear from you again? Yes, I'll hear from you again, and you shall hear from me. On Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment."


Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of what had taken place; to the other he said, "Go into the mill, Sarah--there is the key--and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lantern and help me to light up the front."

Having led the wagons within the gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few words quickly but quietly to the two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He calmed the alarm of one; to the other, the maid-servant, he said,
"Go into the mill, Sarah, and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Then get another lantern and help me to light up the front."


Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out presently, with irregular but loud and alarming din. The hurried, agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the summons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On that still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. The guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, and declaring that "there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's Miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely had they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony, "rode lightly in," followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on a larger steed.

Returning to his horses, he unharnessed and stabled them with speed and care. Presently the mill-bell clanged out, with an irregular but loud and alarming din.
On that still night, it was heard a long way away. The guests in the Redhouse Inn were startled by the clamour, and declaring that "there must be summat to do at Hollow's Miln," they called for lanterns, and hurried there. Scarcely had they thronged into the yard, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on a shaggy pony, rode in, followed by another rider on a larger steed.


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

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


"Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want us to-night--me and the hetman here (patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? I do not see a mask or a smutted face present; and there is not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect one?"

"Well, Moore, what is your business with us? I thought you would want us tonight - me and Tom here. When I heard your mill-bell I could sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the enemy? There is not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do you expect one?"


"Oh, not at all! I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moore coolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more go over to Stilbro' Moor."

"I have neither had one nor expect one," answered Moore coolly. "I only ordered the bell to be rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I and a few others go over to Stilbro' Moor."


"To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wagons?"


"Then all's right. What more would you have?"


"They came home empty; and Joe Scott and company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that scrawl."


Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of which the contents have before been given.


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

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


"Indeed!--Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops to-night. You are left here in command of these premises--an honourable post!"

"Indeed! - Peter Augustus Malone, be on your guard. Eat no more mutton chops tonight. You are left in command of these premises!"


"As many of the present assemblage as choose.--My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go a little way with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been waylaid and assaulted by frame-breakers?"

"As many of those present as choose. - My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who have been assaulted by frame-breakers?"


The small number of three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and the rescue-party set out.

Three volunteered to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse, the rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get at them? Moore nodded, and the rescue-party set out.


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

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


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

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


So much for Caroline Helstone's appearance. As to her character or intellect, if she had any, they must speak for themselves in due time.


Her connections are soon explained. She was the child of parents separated soon after her birth, in consequence of disagreement of disposition. Her mother was the half-sister of Mr. Moore's father; thus, though there was no mixture of blood, she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was the brother of Mr. Helstone--a man of the character friends desire not to recall, after death has once settled all earthly accounts. He had rendered his wife unhappy. The reports which were known to be true concerning him had given an air of probability to those which were falsely circulated respecting his better-principled brother. Caroline had never known her mother, as she was taken from her in infancy, and had not since seen her; her father died comparatively young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some years been her sole guardian. He was not, as we are aware, much adapted, either by nature or habits, to have the charge of a young girl. He had taken little trouble about her education; probably he would have taken none if she, finding herself neglected, had not grown anxious on her own account, and asked, every now and then, for a little attention, and for the means of acquiring such amount of knowledge as could not be dispensed with. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was inferior, that her attainments were fewer than were usually possessed by girls of her age and station; and very glad was she to avail herself of the kind offer made by her cousin Hortense, soon after the arrival of the latter at Hollow's Mill, to teach her French and fine needle-work. Mdlle. Moore, for her part, delighted in the task, because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet quick pupil. She took Caroline precisely at her own estimate, as an irregularly-taught, even ignorant girl; and when she found that she made rapid and eager progress, it was to no talent, no application, in the scholar she ascribed the improvement, but entirely to her own superior method of teaching. When she found that Caroline, unskilled in routine, had a knowledge of her own, desultory but varied, the discovery caused her no surprise, for she still imagined that from her conversation had the girl unawares gleaned these treasures. She thought it even when forced to feel that her pupil knew much on subjects whereof she knew little. The idea was not logical, but Hortense had perfect faith in it.

As to her family, she was the child of parents separated soon after her birth. Her mother was the half-sister of Mr. Moore's father; thus, though there was no shared blood, she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was Mr. Helstone's brother, and was a man whose character friends preferred not to recall after his death. He had made his wife unhappy. The truthful reports about his behaviour had made more credible those rumours which were falsely circulated about his better-principled brother.
Caroline had never known her mother, as she was taken from her in infancy. She had not seen her since. Her father died comparatively young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some years been her sole guardian. He was not much suited to have the charge of a young girl. He had taken little trouble about her education; probably he would have taken none if she had not grown anxious about it, and asked to acquire some knowledge. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was inferior, with fewer attainments than those of other girls of her age; and she was very glad of the kind offer made by her cousin Hortense to teach her French and fine needle-work.
Mlle. Moore, for her part, delighted in the task, because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet quick pupil. When she found that Caroline made rapid and eager progress, she ascribed the improvement entirely to her own superior teaching. She imagined that everything Caroline knew, she had learned from her, even on subjects of which she knew little herself. The idea was not logical, but Hortense had perfect faith in it.


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

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


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

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


Mr. Moore, released from the business yoke, was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, a complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her questions. He was something agreeable to sit near, to hover round, to address and look at. Sometimes he was better than this--almost animated, quite gentle and friendly.

Mr. Moore, released from business, was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, agreeable and ready to respond to her questions. Sometimes he was almost animated, quite gentle and friendly.


The drawback was that by the next morning he was sure to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed, in his quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely contrived their recurrence. This circumstance puzzled the inexperienced head of his cousin. "If I had a means of happiness at my command," she thought, "I would employ that means often. I would keep it bright with use, and not let it lie for weeks aside, till it gets rusty."

The drawback was that by the next morning he was sure to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed, in his quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely asked for their recurrence. This puzzled his inexperienced cousin.
"If I had a means of happiness at my command," she thought, "I would employ it often, and not let it lie for weeks aside."


Yet she was careful not to put in practice her own theory. Much as she liked an evening visit to the cottage, she never paid one unasked. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she would refuse, because Robert did not second, or but slightly seconded the request. This morning was the first time he had ever, of his own unprompted will, given her an invitation; and then he had spoken so kindly that in hearing him she had received a sense of happiness sufficient to keep her glad for the whole day.

Yet she was careful not to visit unasked, much though she enjoyed her evenings there. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she would refuse, because Robert did not second the request. This morning was the first time he had ever given her an invitation unprompted; and he had spoken so kindly that she was glad for the whole day.


The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle, ever breathlessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen to parlour, now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's exercise or hearing her repetition-lesson. However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, she never commended: it was a maxim with her that praise is inconsistent with a teacher's dignity, and that blame, in more or less unqualified measure, is indispensable to it. She thought incessant reprimand, severe or slight, quite necessary to the maintenance of her authority; and if no possible error was to be found in the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air, or dress, or mien, which required correction.

The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle spent it in bustling from kitchen to parlour, now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's exercise or hearing her lesson. However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, Hortense never praised her, believing that praise was inconsistent with a teacher's dignity. She thought reprimand, however, necessary to maintain authority; and if no error was to be found in the lesson, she would correct the pupil's deportment or dress.


The usual affray took place about the dinner, which meal, when Sarah at last brought it into the room, she almost flung upon the table, with a look that expressed quite plainly, "I never dished such stuff i' my life afore; it's not fit for dogs." Notwithstanding Sarah's scorn, it was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a sort of pure of dried peas, which mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter lamentations that in this desolate country of England no haricot beans were to be had. Then came a dish of meat--nature unknown, but supposed to be miscellaneous--singularly chopped up with crumbs of bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in a mould--a queer but by no means unpalatable dish. Greens, oddly bruised, formed the accompanying vegetable; and a pt of fruit, conserved after a recipe devised by Madame Grard Moore's "grand'mre," and from the taste of which it appeared probable that "mlasse" had been substituted for sugar, completed the dinner.

The usual affray took place about the dinner, which Sarah almost flung upon the table, with a look that said quite plainly, "I never dished such stuff i' my life afore; it's not fit for dogs." It was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a pure of dried peas, followed by a dish of miscellaneous meat - chopped up with breadcrumbs, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in a mould - a strange but tasty dish.


Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery--indeed she rather liked it for a change; and it was well she did so, for had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such manifestation would have injured her in mademoiselle's good graces for ever; a positive crime might have been more easily pardoned than a symptom of distaste for the foreign comestibles.

Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery - indeed, she rather liked it; and it was just as well, for showing any distaste would have injured her in mademoiselle's good graces for ever.


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

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


"I wear a high dress and a collar," said Caroline, "and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in addition; and my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one. I would rather make no change."

"I wear a high collar," said Caroline, "and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in addition; and my short aprons do quite as well as that long one."


Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would probably have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr. Moore chanced to overhear a dispute on the subject, and decided that Caroline's little aprons would suffice, and that, in his opinion, as she was still but a child, she might for the present dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were long, and almost touched her shoulders.

Yet Hortense would have insisted, had not Mr. Moore chanced to overhear, and decided that Caroline's little aprons would suffice, and that as she was still a child, she might for the present dispense with the fichu.


There was no appeal against Robert's opinion, therefore his sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved entirely of the piquant neatness of Caroline's costume, and the ladylike grace of her appearance. Something more solid and homely she would have considered "beaucoup plus convenable."

His sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved of the piquant and ladylike neatness of Caroline's costume. Something more solid and homely she would have considered much more fitting.


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

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


No time did she lose in seeking up a hopeless pair of hose, of which the heels were entirely gone, and in setting the ignorant English girl to repair the deficiency. This task had been commenced two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag yet. She did a few rows every day, by way of penance for the expiation of her sins. They were a grievous burden to her; she would much have liked to put them in the fire; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed her sitting and sighing over them, had proposed a private incremation in the counting-house; but to this proposal Caroline knew it would have been impolitic to accede--the result could only be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse condition. She adhered, therefore, to the ills she knew.

She found a hopeless pair of stockings, and set the ignorant English girl to work.
This task had begun two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag still. They were a grievous burden to her; she would have liked to put them in the fire; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed her sighing over them, had proposed a private cremation in the counting-house; but Caroline knew it would have been unwise.


All the afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed, till the eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one of them, were weary. The sky since dinner had darkened; it had begun to rain again, to pour fast. Secret fears began to steal on Caroline that Robert would be persuaded by Mr. Sykes or Mr. Yorke to remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that there appeared no present chance. Five o'clock struck, and time stole on; still the clouds streamed. A sighing wind whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage; day seemed already closing; the parlour fire shed on the clear hearth a glow ruddy as at twilight.

All this afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed. The sky had darkened; it had begun to rain again. Secret fears began to steal on Caroline that Robert would stay at Whinbury till it cleared. Five o'clock struck, and still the clouds streamed. A sighing wind whispered in the trees; day seemed already closing.


"It will not be fair till the moon rises," pronounced Mademoiselle Moore, "consequently I feel assured that my brother will not return till then. Indeed I should be sorry if he did. We will have coffee. It would be vain to wait for him."

"It will not be fine till the moon rises," pronounced Mlle Moore, "and I am sure that my brother will not return till then. We will have coffee. It would be vain to wait for him."


"I am tired. May I leave my work now, cousin?"


"You may, since it grows too dark to see to do it well. Fold it up; put it carefully in your bag; then step into the kitchen and desire Sarah to bring in the goter, or tea, as you call it."

"You may, since it grows too dark to do it well. Fold it up; put it away carefully; then step into the kitchen and desire Sarah to bring in the tray."


"But it has not yet struck six. He may still come."


"He will not, I tell you. I can calculate his movements. I understand my brother."

"He will not, I tell you. I understand my brother."


Suspense is irksome, disappointment bitter. All the world has, some time or other, felt that. Caroline, obedient to orders, passed into the kitchen. Sarah was making a dress for herself at the table.

Caroline went obediently into the kitchen, where Sarah was sewing herself a dress.


"You are to bring in coffee," said the young lady in a spiritless tone; and then she leaned her arm and head against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the fire.

"You are to bring in coffee," she said in a spiritless tone; and then she leaned her arm and head against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the fire.


"How low you seem, miss! But it's all because your cousin keeps you so close to work. It's a shame!"

"How low you seem, miss! It's because your cousin keeps you so close at work. It's a shame!"


"Nothing of the kind, Sarah," was the brief reply.

"Nothing of the kind, Sarah," was the reply.


"Oh! but I know it is. You're fit to cry just this minute, for nothing else but because you've sat still the whole day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so."

"Oh! but I know it is. You're fit to cry, just because you've sat still the whole day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so."


"Sarah, does your master often come home early from market when it is wet?"


"Never, hardly; but just to-day, for some reason, he has made a difference."


"He is come. I am certain I saw Murgatroyd lead his horse into the yard by the back-way, when I went to get some water at the pump five minutes since. He was in the counting-house with Joe Scott, I believe."

I saw Murgatroyd lead his horse into the yard five minutes since. He was in the counting-house with Joe Scott, I believe.


"What should I be mistaken for? I know his horse surely?"


"I heard him speak, though. He was saying something to Joe Scott about having settled all concerning ways and means, and that there would be a new set of frames in the mill before another week passed, and that this time he would get four soldiers from Stilbro' barracks to guard the wagon."

I heard him saying something to Joe about having a new set of frames in the mill next week, and that this time he would get four soldiers from Stilbro' barracks to guard the wagon."


"Beautiful! Get the coffee ready. I'll finish cutting out that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for it. I have some narrow satin ribbon of a colour that will just match it."

"Beautiful! Get the coffee. I'll finish cutting out that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for it. I have some satin ribbon that will just match it."


"Be quick; there's a good girl. But first put your master's shoes on the hearth: he will take his boots off when he comes in. I hear him; he is coming."

"Be quick; there's a good girl. But first put your master's shoes on the hearth for him. I hear him coming."


"Miss, you are cutting the stuff wrong."


"So I am; but it is only a snip. There is no harm done."


The kitchen door opened; Mr. Moore entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned from her dressmaking occupation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute's time for some purpose. Bent over the dress, her face was hidden; there was an attempt to settle her features and veil their expression, which failed. When she at last met Mr. Moore, her countenance beamed.

The kitchen door opened; Mr. Moore entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned, but then bent over the dress again, her face hidden. There was an attempt to settle her features, which failed. When she at last looked up, she beamed.


"We had ceased to expect you. They asserted you would not come," she said.

"They said you would not come," she said.


"But I promised to return soon. _You_ expected me, I suppose?"

"But I promised to return. You expected me, I suppose?"


"No, Robert; I dared not when it rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled. Change everything. If you took cold, I should--we should blame ourselves in some measure."

"No, Robert; it rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled. Change your clothes. If you took cold, I should - we should blame ourselves."


"I am not wet through: my riding-coat is waterproof. Dry shoes are all I require. There--the fire is pleasant after facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles."

"I am not wet through: my riding-coat is waterproof. Dry shoes are all I require. There - the fire is pleasant."


He stood on the kitchen hearth; Caroline stood beside him. Mr. Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept his eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the shelf above. Chancing for an instant to look down, his glance rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Sarah was gone into the parlour with the tray; a lecture from her mistress detained her there. Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.

He stood on the hearth and glanced down for an instant on an uplifted face, flushed and smiling, shaded with silky curls. Sarah was gone into the parlour with the tray; Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.


"Oh!" said she, as if the action had unsealed her lips, "I was miserable when I thought you would not come. I am almost too happy now. Are you happy, Robert? Do you like to come home?"

"Oh!" said she, "I was miserable when I thought you would not come. I am almost too happy now. Are you happy, Robert? Do you like to come home?"


"Are you certain you are not fretting about your frames, and your business, and the war?"

"You are not fretting about your frames, and your business, and the war?"


"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's Cottage too small for you, and narrow, and dismal?"

"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's Cottage too small and dismal for you?"


"Can you affirm that you are not bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?"

"And you are not bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?"


"No more questions. You are mistaken if you think I am anxious to curry favour with rich and great people. I only want means--a position--a career."

"No more questions. You are mistaken if you think I am anxious to curry favour with the rich. I only want a career."


"Which your own talent and goodness shall win you. You were made to be great; you _shall_ be great."

"Which your own talent and goodness shall win you. You were made to be great."


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

"And how would that happen? Oh, life is not what you think it, Lina!"


"Ah! You judge me with your heart, Lina: you should judge me with your head."

"Ah! You should judge me with your head, Lina."


"I do; and then I am quite proud of you. Robert, you cannot tell all my thoughts about you."

"I do; and then I am quite proud of you."


Mr. Moore's dark face mustered colour; his lips smiled, and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he resolutely knit his brow.

Mr. Moore's face coloured; his lips smiled, and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he knit his brow.


"Think meanly of me, Lina," said he. "Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you have an idea. I make no pretension to be better than my fellows."

"Think meanly of me, Lina," said he. "Men, in general, are a sort of scum, and I am no better than my fellows."


"If you did, I should not esteem you so much. It is because you are modest that I have such confidence in your merit."

"It is because you are modest that I have such confidence in your merit."


"Are you flattering me?" he demanded, turning sharply upon her, and searching her face with an eye of acute penetration.

"Then why do you say this, Caroline?" he demanded sharply.


"No," she said softly, laughing at his sudden quickness. She seemed to think it unnecessary to proffer any eager disavowal of the charge.


"You don't care whether I think you flatter me or not?"


"You are so secure of your own intentions?"


"Only to ease my mind by expressing for once part of what I think, and then to make you better satisfied with yourself."

"Only to ease my mind by expressing what I think for once; and to make you better satisfied with yourself."


"By assuring me that my kinswoman is my sincere friend?"

"By assuring me that you are my sincere friend?"


"Just so. I am your sincere friend, Robert."


"And I am--what chance and change shall make me, Lina."


The answer was cut short by Sarah and her mistress entering the kitchen together in some commotion. They had been improving the time which Mr. Moore and Miss Helstone had spent in dialogue by a short dispute on the subject of "caf au lait," which Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as it was "the nature of coffee to be boiled in water," and which mademoiselle affirmed to be "un breuvage royal," a thousand times too good for the mean person who objected to it.

The answer was cut short by Sarah and her mistress entering the kitchen in some commotion. They had been disputing about "caf au lait," which Sarah said was the queerest mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as coffee should be boiled in water; and which mademoiselle affirmed to be a royal beverage, a thousand times too good for Sarah.


The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew into the parlour. Before Hortense followed them thither, Caroline had only time again to question, "Not my enemy, Robert?" And Moore, Quaker-like, had replied with another query, "Could I be?" And then, seating himself at the table, had settled Caroline at his side.

As they all withdrew into the parlour, Caroline had only time again to question, "Not my enemy, Robert?"
And Moore had replied: "Could I be?" before he sat down at the table.


Caroline scarcely heard mademoiselle's explosion of wrath when she rejoined them; the long declamation about the "conduite indigne de cette mchante crature" sounded in her ear as confusedly as the agitated rattling of the china. Robert laughed a little at it, in very subdued sort, and then, politely and calmly entreating his sister to be tranquil, assured her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she should have her choice of an attendant amongst all the girls in his mill. Only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were most of them, he was informed, completely ignorant of household work; and pert and self-willed as Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse than the majority of the women of her class.

Caroline scarcely heard mademoiselle's explosion of wrath about Sarah; Robert laughed a little, and then, entreating his sister to be tranquil, assured her that she should have her choice of maid from all the girls in his mill. Only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were ignorant of household work; and just as pert and self-willed as Sarah was.


Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this conjecture: according to her, "ces paysannes anglaises taient tout insupportables." What would she not give for some "bonne cuisinire anversoise," with the high cap, short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her class--something better, indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears, did not partake the opinion of St. Paul that "it is a shame for a woman to go with her head uncovered;" but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair, which it was her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, and on Sundays to wear curled in front.)

Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this.


"Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr. Moore, who, stern in public, was on the whole very kind in private.

"Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr. Moore, who, stern in public, was kind in private.


"Merci du cadeau!" was the answer. "An Antwerp girl would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your factory;" then softening, "You are very good, dear brother--excuse my petulance--but truly my domestic trials are severe, yet they are probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants in Antwerp. Domestics are in all countries a spoiled and unruly set."

"An Antwerp girl would not stay, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your factory;" then softening, "You are very good, dear brother - excuse my petulance - but my domestic trials are severe. Yet I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants in Antwerp."