Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the trials of his revered mother. A good mother she had been to him, and he honoured her memory; but he recollected that she kept a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did here in England. Thus, therefore, he let the subject drop, and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded to console Hortense by fetching her music-book and guitar; and having arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck with a quiet fraternal kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most ruffled moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother's favourite songs.

Mr. Moore recalled his good mother's kitchen in Antwerp, and let the subject drop. He consoled Hortense by fetching her guitar, and asking her to play some of their mother's favourite songs.


Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vulgarizes; family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother, and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her everyday fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a "sourire plein de bont." She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline listened with nave interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at the close of the song, "I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!" achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.

Hortense, pleased, looked almost graceful, almost handsome; as she played, her everyday fretful look was gone. She sang with feeling. Seeing that Caroline listened with interest, this increased her good-humour. Caroline's exclamation at the close of the song, "I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!" rendered her charming for the evening.


It is true a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of _wishing_ and the duty of _trying_. "As Rome," it was suggested, "had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Grard Moore's education been completed in a week, or by merely _wishing_ to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work. She was ever remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry. Her masters had remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on." Once on the theme of her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.


Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked happy.

Cradled in blissful self-complacency, Hortense took up her knitting. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave the little parlour its best charm.


"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.

"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore.


"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."


"No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?"


"I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"


"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"


"A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it sounds, I must say no."


"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third--fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person among us--so selfish we are in our happiness--though we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."

"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third - fourth, I mean (she hastily glanced at Hortense), living person here - it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people of long gone generations speak to us and tell us their thoughts."


"Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?"

"Who shall be the speaker? Is he French?"


"Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book."

"No, Robert. Tonight you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book.


"Yes, an old English book--one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords."

An old book - that shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound like a lyre. Let glorious William touch your heart."


"You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours."


"With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"

- with a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"


"It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly--not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points."

"It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly - not only your virtues, but your vices."


"Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.

"What is she saying?" cried Hortense, who had been counting stitches.


"Never mind her, sister; let her talk. Now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone."

"Never mind, sister; let her talk. Let her say anything she pleases tonight. It amuses me."


Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the bookcase, returned with a book.

Caroline, who had been rummaging at the bookcase, returned with a book.


"Here's Shakespeare," she said, "and there's 'Coriolanus.' Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low and how high you are."

"Here's Coriolanus," she said. "Now, read, and discover at once how low and how high you are."


"Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."


"I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?"


"And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?"


"And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to refuse to admire?"

If you are all French, and sceptical and sneering


"If you do, Robert, I'll take Shakespeare away; and I'll shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go home."


"One minute, if you please, brother," interrupted mademoiselle. "When the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies should always sew.--Caroline, dear child, take your embroidery. You may get three sprigs done to-night."


Caroline looked dismayed. "I can't see by lamp-light; my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen; if I listen, I cannot sew."


"Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!" began Hortense. Mr. Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.


"Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening. I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent; and to ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes--she must look at the book."


He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.

He placed the book between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and began to read.


The very first scene in "Coriolanus" came with smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.

He relished the very first scene in Coriolanus; as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens suavely, as if he thought his irrational pride was right. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.


"There's a vicious point hit already," she said. "You sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sympathize with his famished fellow-men, and insults them. There, go on." He proceeded. The warlike portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, or should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter single-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel in the large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters who were speaking from that page before him.

"There's a vicious point already," she said. "You sympathize with that proud patrician who insults his famished fellow-men. Go on."
He proceeded. The warlike parts did not rouse him much; yet the single-handed fight between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he went on, he began to revel in the picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters on the page.


He did not read the comic scenes well; and Caroline, taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him. From her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing, that the general character of her conversation that evening, whether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful--when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had been than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.

He did not read the comic scenes well; so Caroline read these parts for him, with unexpected spirit and expression. Indeed, her conversation that evening, whether grave or gay, was intuitive - glittering like the fleeting ripple on a stream.


Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed like giant shades one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. He saw "the grim appearance," the dark face "bearing command in it," "the noble vessel with its tackle torn." With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; he was not scandalized by it; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error."

Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, seeing greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error."


The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, which ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weakness, the death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy--all scenes made of condensed truth and strength--came on in succession and carried with them in their deep, fast flow the heart and mind of reader and listener.

The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, the death of Coriolanus and his enemy's final sorrow - all flowed on deep and fast, carrying with them the heart and mind of the reader.


"Now, have you felt Shakespeare?" asked Caroline, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.

"Now, have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?" asked Caroline, after her cousin had closed the book.


"And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?"


"And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?"


'Whether was it pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man? whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of? or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the war?'"


"It was a spice of all; and you must not be proud to your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of soothing them; and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerely as if it were a command."

"You must not be proud to your workpeople; you must soothe them; you must not be inflexible and austere."


"That is the moral you tack to the play. What puts such notions into your head?"

"What puts such notions into your head?"


"A wish for your good, a care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear, caused by many things which I have heard lately, that you will come to harm."

"A care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear that you will come to harm.


"I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low enemies, your resolution not 'to truckle to the mob,' as he says."

I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard and determined spirit, your scorn of low enemies, and your resolution not 'to truckle to the mob.'


"And would you have me truckle to them?"


"No, not for the world. I never wish you to lower yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working-people under the general and insulting name of 'the mob,' and continually to think of them and treat them haughtily."

Yet I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working-people under the insulting name of 'the mob,' and to treat them haughtily."


"You are a little democrat, Caroline. If your uncle knew, what would he say?"


"I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women's comprehension, and out of their line."

"I rarely talk to my uncle, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women's comprehension."


"And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?"


"As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you _are_ sometimes, can I venture to be affectionate in return?"

"I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, how can I venture to be affectionate in return?"


"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor Andr Chnier--'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"

"Now, Lina, I've had my lesson; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, by Chnier - 'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"


"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; especially let us have no English _u_'s."

"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; let us have no English u's."


Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chnier. The last three stanzas she rehearsed well.


"Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin! Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin J'ai pass le premiers peine. Au banquet de la vie peine commenc, Un instant seulement mes lvres ont press La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.


"Je ne suis qu'au printemps--je veux voir la moisson; Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison, Je veux achever mon anne, Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneur du jardin Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin, Je veux achever ma journe!"


Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not shed on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment--animated, interested, touched--she might be called beautiful. Such a face was calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration, but some feeling more tender, genial, intimate--friendship, perhaps, affection, interest. When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.

Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her noticing. Her eyes had an animating light this evening: at the present moment, she might be called beautiful. When she had finished, she turned to Moore.


"Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like any happy, docile child.

"Is that pretty well repeated?" she inquired, smiling like a happy child.


"Why don't you know? Have you not listened?"


"Yes--and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?"

"Yes - and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?"


"When I meet with _real_ poetry, I cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine."

"When I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine."


Mr. Moore now sat silent for several minutes. It struck nine o'clock. Sarah entered, and said that Mr. Helstone's servant was come for Miss Caroline.


"Then the evening is gone already," she observed, "and it will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here."

"Then the evening is gone already," Caroline observed, "and it will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here."


Hortense had been for some time nodding over her knitting; fallen into a doze now, she made no response to the remark.

Hortense had been for some time dozing over her knitting, and made no response.


"You would have no objection to come here oftener of an evening?" inquired Robert, as he took her folded mantle from the side-table, where it still lay, and carefully wrapped it round her.

"You would not mind coming here oftener of an evening?" inquired Robert, as he carefully wrapped her mantle round her.


"I like to come here; but I have no desire to be intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked; you must understand that."

"I like to come; but I have no desire to be intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked; you must understand that."


"Oh! I understand thee, child. You sometimes lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina; but if I _were_ rich, you should live here always--at any rate, you should live with me wherever my habitation might be."

"Oh! I understand thee, child. You sometimes lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina; but if I were rich, you should live here always."


"That would be pleasant; and if you were poor--ever so poor--it would still be pleasant. Good-night, Robert."

"That would be pleasant, even if you were poor. Good-night, Robert."


"I promised to walk with you up to the rectory."


"I know you did; but I thought you had forgotten, and I hardly knew how to remind you, though I wished to do it. But would you like to go? It is a cold night, and as Fanny is come, there is no necessity----"

"I know you did; but I thought you had forgotten. It is a cold night, and as Fanny is come, there is no need-"


"Here is your muff; don't wake Hortense--come."

"Here is your muff; don't wake Hortense. Come."


The half mile to the rectory was soon traversed. They parted in the garden without kiss, scarcely with a pressure of hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously troubled. He had been singularly kind to her that day--not in phrase, compliment, profession, but in manner, in look, and in soft and friendly tones.

The half mile to the rectory was soon traversed. They parted in the garden without a kiss, scarcely with a pressure of hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously troubled. He had been singularly kind to her that day.


For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. As he stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in the watery moonlight all alone, the hushed, dark mill before him, the hill-environed hollow round, he exclaimed, abruptly,--

For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. As he stood leaning on his yard-gate, musing in the moonlight, he exclaimed abruptly:


"This won't do! There's weakness--there's downright ruin in all this. However," he added, dropping his voice, "the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well; I have had it before. It will be gone to-morrow."

"This won't do! There's weakness and downright ruin in all this. However," he added, dropping his voice, "the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well; I have had it before. It will be gone tomorrow."


Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personages whose acquaintance we have made in this narrative, and then you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.

Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the people we have met, and then you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.


Let us turn to the curates--to the much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly answers the invocation. He knows his own description when he hears it.

Let us turn to the curates - much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, promptly answers.


No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating public has its crotchets; that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plain facts will not digest? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and burnt feathers. "Impossible!" would be pronounced here; "untrue!" would be responded there; "inartistic!" would be solemnly decided. Note well. Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie--they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish; whereas the product of your own imagination, the mere figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural--the little, spurious wretch gets all the comfits, the honest, lawful bantling all the cuffs. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed, and naughty, you must stand down.

No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Are you not aware, Peter, that a discriminating public does not care for the unvarnished truth? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there would be wild cries of "Impossible!" "Untrue!" Note well. Whenever you present the actual truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie; whereas the product of your own imagination, the fiction, is adopted, petted, called sweetly natural. Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the legitimate urchin, you must stand down.


Here he comes, with his lady on his arm--the most splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire--Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.

Here he comes, with his lady on his arm - the splendid Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices, Mr. Sweeting having been just offered a comfortable living. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.


There! I think the varnish has been put on very nicely.


This gentleman turned out admirably--far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like little woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest (as a pastor he, to his dying day, conscientiously refused to act). The outside of the cup and platter he burnished up with the best polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with the zeal of an upholsterer, the care of a cabinet-maker. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model in its way. If uniformity and taste in architecture had been the same thing as consistency and earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a Christian flock Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne: it was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for all his erections. In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of action quite unique. He begged of high and low--of the shoeless cottage brat and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide--to old Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royal dukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of the ministry then in office; and, what is more remarkable, he screwed something out of every one of these personages. It is on record that he got five pounds from the close-fisted old lady Queen Charlotte, and two guineas from the royal profligate her eldest son. When Mr. Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself in a complete suit of brazen mail. That you had given a hundred pounds yesterday was with him no reason why you should not give two hundred to-day. He would tell you so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good with the cash. He was useful in his day and generation.

This gentleman turned out admirably - far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model of uniformity and taste. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for these. He begged from high and low - the shoeless cottage brat and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide - to old Queen Charlotte, her sons and daughters, the Prince Regent, Lord Castlereagh, and every minister then in office; and, what is more remarkable, he got something out of every one of them. Even the Prince Regent donated him two guineas. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good. He was useful in his day.


Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, _with truth_, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit. He proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious as Peter was rampant, boisterous, and---- This last epithet I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools, both Sunday and day schools, flourished under his sway like green bay trees. Being human, of course he had his faults. These, however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faults--what many would call virtues. The circumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a week. The spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being interred with Christian rites--these things could make strange havoc in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental economy. Otherwise he was sane and rational, diligent and charitable.

Perhaps I ought to remark that on the premature and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader, because of your love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to inform you that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit. He proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious as Peter was rampant, boisterous, and- This last epithet I suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. Mr. Macarthey laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools flourished under his sway. His faults were proper, steady-going, clerical faults: an invitation to tea with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a week; the sight of a Quaker wearing his hat in church played havoc with his mental wellbeing. Otherwise he was rational and diligent.


I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous and exciting--a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon, the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but _I_ should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectly exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for the good reason that he was never caught--the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going to rise and do valiant things; but since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, and sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.

The justice-loving public will have remarked that I have been remiss in pursuing, catching, and bringing to punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon and the dock. You might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I was happy to find that facts exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, because he was never caught. The magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going do valiant things; but since Moore did not urge them on, they prudently resolved to let the matter quietly drop.


Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver once before alluded to, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.

Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver. The poor soul died of delirium tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.


The winter is over and gone; spring has followed with beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer--in mid-June--the June of 1812.

The winter is over and gone; spring has followed, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer - the June of 1812.


It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant adolescence; the Titan boy uproots mountains in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour Russian deserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on. He puts his trust in a snow-cloud; the wilderness, the wind, and the hail-storm are his refuge; his allies are the elements--air, fire, water. And what are these? Three terrible archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. They stand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they uplift vials, brimming with the wrath of God. Their time is the day of vengeance; their signal, the word of the Lord of hosts, "thundering with the voice of His excellency."

It is burning weather. The air is deep azure and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle, with his army behind him, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow, where the Cossack awaits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the boundless ruin rolling on. It is the day of vengeance.


"Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?


"Go your ways. Pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."


It is done. The earth is scorched with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man;" the islands flee away; the mountains are not found.

The earth is scorched with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man."


In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain. They made him generalissimo, for their own salvation's sake. In this year he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; in this year he won Salamanca.

In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in Spain. He took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; he won Salamanca.


Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight _rsum_ of warlike facts, but it is of no consequence. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I rather think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have taunted him with his age and the loss of his physical vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men like you have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demigod. Scoff at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.

Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight rsum of warlike facts. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have taunted him with his age and loss of vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Scoff at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.


But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress, and let out our venom quietly. We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. You know very well--such of you as are old enough to remember--you made Yorkshire and Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant to this day. The Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and all went home in such a plight as their wives would never wish to witness more. Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horse roused amongst his reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled--all, like wise men, at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to rush into the bowels of speculation, and to delve new difficulties, in whose depths they might lose themselves at some future day. Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages rose; the good time seemed come. These prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant--to some they were even true. At that epoch, in that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.

But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress. We arrive now at a triumph. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. Yorkshire and Lancashire shook with your shouts on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; the Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and all went home in such a plight as their wives would never wish to witness more.
Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in the twinkling of an eye. Warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages rose; the good time seemed come. These prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant. In that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.


When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants tastes a festal feeling; the sound of public bells rouses the most secluded abode, as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations for a great event, the last appeal in these matters being reserved for her unimpeachable taste. She decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion--that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.

When a whole province rejoices, the humblest and most secluded of its inhabitants feels festive. So Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, to superintend certain preparations for a great event. She decided on the wreath, the veil, and the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion - Shirley, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.


Louis had presaged difficulties, and he had found them--in fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, at first coaxing him with soft pretences of procrastination, and in the end rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.

Louis had foreseen difficulties, and he had found them. In fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.


It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but there she was at last, fettered to a fixed day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.

It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but at last she was fettered to a fixed day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.


Thus vanquished and restricted, she pined, like any other chained denizen of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her; his society only could make amends for the lost privilege of liberty. In his absence she sat or wandered alone, spoke little, and ate less.

Thus vanquished and chained, she pined. Her captor alone could cheer her; in his absence she sat or wandered alone, spoke little, and ate less.


She furthered no preparations for her nuptials; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he became so nominally--the least presumptuous, the kindest master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated without a word or a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when applied to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride so thoroughly absolved from the subaltern part, so inevitably compelled to assume a paramount character.

She furthered no preparations for her nuptials; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he actually became so - the least presumptuous master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She abdicated without a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when applied to for orders.


In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier."

In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards showed another motive. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern."


It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials, but Fortune had destined her another part.

It had been intended that Miss Helstone should be bridesmaid, but Fortune had destined her another part.


She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone--a monkish relic--once, perhaps, the base of a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops. She gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a solitary thorn at the head of a solitary lane far off. She surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point--the star of love.

She came home in time to water her plants. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. She gazed over the wall, the watering pot still in one hand, surveying the dusky moors, where bonfires were kindling. The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the sky, twinkled a silver point - Venus.


Caroline was not unhappy that evening--far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near; she received the touch unstartled.

Caroline was not unhappy that evening; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near, and was not startled.


"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!"

"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her lustre is!"


The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot and stepped down from the pedestal.

The answer was a closer caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot.


"I have been sitting with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "I have had a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?"

"I have been sitting talking with 'mamma' an hour," said the intruder. "Where, meantime, have you been?"


"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her."

"To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say Yes nor No to any question. She sits alone. I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her or scold her, she gives you a look, half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her."


"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if any one can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"

"Never mind them. They were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if anyone can. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but it ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?"


"For the repeal of your terrible law--the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?"

"For the repeal of your terrible law - the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?"


"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you."

"Yesterday evening at this time I was packing some books for a sea-voyage; along with clothes, seeds and tools, to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you."


Her little fingers fastened on his arm; she spoke and looked affrighted.

Her fingers fastened on his arm; she looked frightened.


"Not now--not now. Examine my face--yes, look at me well. Is the despair of parting legible thereon?"

"Not now. Look at me. Do you see the despair of parting?"


She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.

She looked into a bright face, beaming down on her with hope, fondness and delight.


"Will the repeal do you good--_much_ good, _immediate_ good?" she inquired.

"Will the repeal do you much good?" she inquired.


"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business; now I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my debts; now all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissions given me for much more. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build."

"The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; I shall not give up business; I shall not leave England. Now I shall be no longer poor; I can pay my debts; all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands. This day lays for my fortunes a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely build."


Caroline devoured his words; she held his hand in hers; she drew a long breath.

Caroline held his hand, and drew a long breath.


"You are saved? Your heavy difficulties are lifted?"

"You are saved? Your difficulties are lifted?"


"They are lifted. I breathe. I can act."


"At last! Oh, Providence is kind! Thank Him, Robert."


"And I also, for your sake!" She looked up devoutly.


"Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser and more liberal plans, do some good, be less selfish. _Now_, Caroline, I can have a house--a home which I can truly call mine--and _now_----"

Now I can take more workmen, give better wages, lay wiser plans, do some good, be less selfish. Now, Caroline, I can have a house - a home - and now-"


He paused, for his deep voice was checked.


"And _now_," he resumed--"now I can think of marriage, _now_ I can seek a wife."

"And now I can think of marriage; now I can seek a wife."


This was no moment for her to speak. She did not speak.


"Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she forgives--will she pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes? Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?"

"Will Caroline pardon all I have made her suffer, all that long pain I have wickedly caused her, all that sickness she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition, my sordid schemes? Will she let me prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, I can now love faithfully, cherish tenderly?"


His hand was in Caroline's still; a gentle pressure answered him.


"I will prize her. The sense of her value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life. Not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses than of her happiness and well-being."


"I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."

I love you too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you."


"Will you take faithful care of me? Faithful care! As if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard gray stone! But she _will_ care for me, in her way. These hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will bring me a solace, a charity, a purity, to which, of myself, I am a stranger."

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


Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.


"What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled to and then uneasily shrank from him.


"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must I leave her?"

"Poor mamma! I am all she has. Must I leave her?"


"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty. I and 'mamma' have discussed it."

"Do you know, I thought of that difficulty, and have discussed it with 'mamma'."


"Tell me what you wish, what you would like, and I will consider if it is possible to consent. But I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake."

"I cannot desert her, even for you. I cannot break her heart, even for your sake."


"She was faithful when I was false--was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly."

"She was faithful when I was false - was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly.


"What must I do? Anything but leave her."


"With us--only she will have her own rooms and servant. For this she stipulates herself."

"With us - only she will have her own rooms and servant. This she stipulates herself."


"You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quite independent?"

"You know she has an income, that makes her quite independent?"


"She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else."


"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."


"I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion, she were something quite opposite, I should not fear her."


"Yet she will be your mother-in-law?" The speaker gave an arch little nod. Moore smiled.


"Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary. Our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our own household. I doubt not my mother-in-law will make much of me."

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


"That she will--in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased; it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let me interpret for her whenever she puzzles you; always believe my account of the matter, Robert."

"That she will - in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased; it is only her manner."


"Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will suit--_on ne peut mieux_. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely susceptible--in our French sense of the word--and not, perhaps, always reasonable in her requirements; yet, dear, honest girl, I never painfully wounded her feelings or had a serious quarrel with her in my life."

"I feel that she and I will suit. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely sensitive, and not, perhaps, always reasonable; yet, dear, honest girl, I never had a serious quarrel with her in my life."


"No; you are most generously considerate, indeed, most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside."

"No; you are most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside.


"A eulogium I like; it is very sweet. I am well pleased my Caroline should view me in this light."


"She does not want to marry you--don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with an air of sincerity.'"

"She does not want to marry you - don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with sincerity.'"


"'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?"


"She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her exceptions whom she admires--Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of late, yourself. She did not like you once; I knew that, because she would never speak of you. But, Robert----"

"There are exceptions whom she admires - Louis and Mr. Hall, and, lately, yourself. But, Robert


"Well, what now? What is the new thought?"


"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents conditionally. If I prove that I can keep a wife, I may have her; and I _can_ keep her better than he thinks--better than I choose to boast."

"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He consents if I can prove that I can keep a wife; and I can keep her better than he thinks."


"If you get rich you will do good with your money, Robert?"

"If you get rich will you do good with your money, Robert?"


"I _will_ do good; you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about on our own hearth one day. I have seen the necessity of doing good; I have learned the downright folly of being selfish. Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell. This war _must_ ere long draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper for some years to come. There may be a brief misunderstanding between England and America, but that will not last. What would you think if, one day--perhaps ere another ten years elapse--Louis and I divide Briarfield parish betwixt us? Louis, at any rate, is certain of power and property. He will not bury his talents. He is a benevolent fellow, and has, besides, an intellect of his own of no trifling calibre. His mind is slow but strong. It must work. It may work deliberately, but it will work well. He will be made magistrate of the district--Shirley says he shall. She would proceed impetuously and prematurely to obtain for him this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not. As usual, he will be in no haste. Ere he has been master of Fieldhead a year all the district will feel his quiet influence, and acknowledge his unassuming superiority. A magistrate is wanted; they will, in time, invest him with the office voluntarily and unreluctantly. Everybody admires his future wife, and everybody will, in time, like him. He is of the _pte_ generally approved, _bon comme le pain_--daily bread for the most fastidious, good for the infant and the aged, nourishing for the poor, wholesome for the rich. Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, her dodges and delays, has an infatuated fondness for him. She will one day see him as universally beloved as even _she_ could wish. He will also be universally esteemed, considered, consulted, depended on--too much so. His advice will be always judicious, his help always good-natured. Ere long both will be in inconvenient request. He will have to impose restrictions. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their mill property. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages and rows of cottage-gardens----"

"I will; and you shall tell me how. Indeed, I have some schemes of my own. I have learned the folly of being selfish. Caroline, this war must soon draw to a close. Trade is likely to prosper for some years to come. What would you think if, one day - perhaps ten years hence - Louis and I divide Briarfield parish between us? Louis is certain of power and property. His mind is slow but strong. He will be made magistrate of the district. Shirley would obtain this dignity for him prematurely, if he would let her, but he will not. However, once he has been master of Fieldhead a year, the district will feel his quiet influence, acknowledge his superiority, and make him magistrate voluntarily. Everybody admires his future wife, and everybody will, in time, like him. He will be esteemed, consulted and depended on. His advice will be always judicious, his help always good-natured. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my success will add to his and Shirley's income. I can double the value of their mill property. I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages and rows of cottage-gardens-"


"The copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse. The beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled track shall be an even, firm, broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my mill; and my mill, Caroline--my mill shall fill its present yard."

"The copse shall be firewood within five years. The beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street. There shall be cottages in the dark ravine, and on the lonely slopes. The rough pebbled track shall be a firm, broad road, bedded with the cinders from my mill; and my mill, Caroline, shall fill its present yard."


"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere."

"Horrible! You will change our blue hill-country air into Stilbro' smoke."


"I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of Briarfield."


"I like the beck a thousand times better."


"I will get an Act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and parcelling it out into farms."


"Stilbro' Moor, however, defies you, thank Heaven! What can you grow in Bilberry Moss? What will flourish on Rushedge?"


"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a tenement, and Mrs. Gill shall mete them a portion till the first pay-day."

"Caroline, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a house, and Mrs. Gill shall feed them till the first pay-day."


"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such collections as you will get! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the squire or the clothier shall give a treat once a quarter."

"Such a Sunday school as you will have, Cary! such a day school as you and Shirley and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you! The mill shall find salaries for a master and mistress, and the squire shall give a treat once a quarter."


She mutely offered a kiss--an offer taken unfair advantage of, to the extortion of about a hundred kisses.

She mutely offered a kiss - an offer taken unfair advantage of.


"Extravagant day-dreams," said Moore, with a sigh and smile, "yet perhaps we may realize some of them. Meantime, the dew is falling. Mrs. Moore, I shall take you in."


It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, but through England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet has sounded long; it now waxes louder and louder; it proclaims Salamanca won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled for a like festal purpose; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfield church--Louis Grard Moore, Esq., late of Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Cave Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead; Robert Grard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Mill, to Caroline, niece of the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., rector of Briarfield.

It is August. The bells clash out again, not only through Yorkshire, but through England. From Spain the voice of a trumpet has sounded long; it proclaims Salamanca is won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be assembled; the schools have a grand treat. This morning there were two marriages solemnized in Briarfield church - Louis Grard Moore, Esq., to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead; and Robert Grard Moore, Esq., to Caroline, niece of the Rev. Helstone, rector of Briarfield.


The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by Mr. Helstone, Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the bride away. In the second instance, Mr. Hall, vicar of Nunnely, officiated. Amongst the bridal train the two most noticeable personages were the youthful bridesmen, Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.

The first ceremony was performed by Mr. Helstone, with Mr. Yorke giving the bride away. In the second ceremony, Mr. Hall officiated. Amongst the bridal train were two youthful bridesmen, Henry Sympson and Martin Yorke.


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

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


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

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


"What was the Hollow like then, Martha?"


"Different to what it is now; but I can tell of it clean different again, when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty years syne, my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairish [fairy] in Fieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen on this countryside (though they've been heard within these forty years). A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oak trees and nut trees. It is altered now."

"Different to now; but I could tell of when there was neither mill, nor cottage, nor hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer evening, fifty years since, of my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairy in Fieldhead Hollow; and that was the last fairy that ever was seen in this area. A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny spot, full of oaks and nut trees. It is altered now."


The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!

The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his wisdom to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!


Not on combat bent, nor of foemen in search, was this priest-led and woman-officered company; yet their music played martial tunes, and, to judge by the eyes and carriage of some--Miss Keeldar, for instance--these sounds awoke, if not a martial, yet a longing spirit. Old Helstone, turning by chance, looked into her face; and he laughed, and she laughed at him.

The bands played martial tunes, and in some - Miss Keeldar, for instance - these sounds awoke, if not a martial, yet a longing spirit. Old Helstone, turning, looked at her; and they both laughed.


"There is no battle in prospect," he said; "our country does not want us to fight for it. No foe or tyrant is questioning or threatening our liberty. There is nothing to be done. We are only taking a walk. Keep your hand on the reins, captain, and slack the fire of that spirit. It is not wanted, the more's the pity."

"There is no battle in prospect," he said; "No foe is threatening our liberty. We are only taking a walk. Keep your hand on the reins, captain, and slack the fire of that spirit."


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

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


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

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


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

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


"Perhaps they are only exercising their horses."


"We shall pass through Royd Lane, to reach Nunnely Common by a short cut," said he.

"We shall pass through Royd Lane, to reach Nunnely Common by a short cut."


And into the straits of Royd Lane they accordingly defiled. It was very narrow--so narrow that only two could walk abreast without falling into the ditch which ran along each side. They had gained the middle of it, when excitement became obvious in the clerical commanders. Boultby's spectacles and Helstone's Rehoboam were agitated; the curates nudged each other; Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and smiled.

And into Royd Lane they accordingly filed. It was so narrow that only two could walk abreast. They had reached the middle of it, when excitement became obvious in the clerical commanders. The curates nudged each other; Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and smiled.


He pointed with his staff to the end of the lane before them. Lo and behold! another, an opposition, procession was there entering, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they could now hear, by music.

He pointed to the end of the lane before them. Another procession was entering there, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they could now hear, by music.


"Is it our double?" asked Shirley, "our manifold wraith? Here is a card turned up."


"If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one--at least of looks," whispered Caroline, laughing.

"If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one - at least of looks," whispered Caroline, laughing.


"They shall not pass us!" cried the curates unanimously; "we'll not give way!"

"They shall not pass us!" cried the curates; "we'll not give way!"


"Give way!" retorted Helstone sternly, turning round; "who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about. The ladies, I know, will be firm. I can trust them. There is not a churchwoman here but will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment.--What does Miss Keeldar say?"

"Give way!" retorted Helstone sternly; "who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about. The ladies, I know, will be firm. Every churchwoman here will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment."


"The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists, Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and turning purposely into this lane with the intention of obstructing our march and driving us back."


"Bad manners!" said Shirley, "and I hate bad manners. Of course, they must have a lesson."

"Bad manners!" said Shirley. "Of course, they must have a lesson."


"A lesson in politeness," suggested Mr. Hall, who was ever for peace; "not an example of rudeness."

"A lesson in politeness," suggested Mr. Hall; "not an example of rudeness."


Old Helstone moved on. Quickening his step, he marched some yards in advance of his company. He had nearly reached the other sable leaders, when he who appeared to act as the hostile commander-in-chief--a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat on his forehead--called a halt. The procession paused. He drew forth a hymn book, gave out a verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most dolorous of canticles.

Old Helstone marched on ahead of his company, quickening his step. He had nearly reached the other group, when its leader - a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat - called a halt. He drew forth a hymn book, gave out a verse, and his group struck up the most dolorous of songs.


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

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


"Now, follow me!" exclaimed Helstone; "not at a run, but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and woman of you. Keep together. Hold on by each other's skirts, if necessary."

"Now, follow me!" exclaimed Helstone; "not running, but at a firm, smart pace. Keep together."


And he strode on with such a determined and deliberate gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his scholars and teachers, who did exactly as he told them, neither running nor faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus--the curates, too, being compelled to do the same, as they were between two fires, Helstone and Miss Keeldar, both of whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance, and were ready, the one with his cane, the other with her parasol, to rebuke the slightest breach of orders, the least independent or irregular demonstration--that the body of Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne down and pressed back, and at last forced to turn tail and leave the outlet from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them, held him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though sorely tried in wind.

And he strode on with such a determined gait, and was so well obeyed by his scholars and teachers, who marched with cool, solid impetus - even the curates - that the Dissenters were pressed back, and were at last forced to turn tail and leave the exit from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone held him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though breathless.


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, "I expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat and her cheek yet glowed with it, when a note from the organ pealed above the confused hum of the place. Dr. Boultby, Mr. Helstone, and Mr. Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was sung to the accompaniment of the music; and then tea began. She was kept too busy with her office for a while to have leisure for looking round, but the last cup being filled, she threw a restless glance over the room. There were some ladies and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated with seats. Amidst a group she recognized her spinster friend, Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had tempted, or some urgent friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude for one hour of social enjoyment. Miss Mann looked tired of standing; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair. Caroline knew well that _chapeau en satin jaune_; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated and froward-looking face under it; she knew that _robe de soie noire_, she knew even that _schall gris de lin_; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her--to give her one embrace for her own sake and two for her brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps--for the impulse was very strong--she would have run across the room and actually saluted her; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her whispered, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."

Caroline's ears still rung with that thrilling whisper, "I expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat with it, when a note from the organ pealed out. The clergymen rose, so did everyone else, and grace was sung; then tea began. She was kept too busy to have leisure for looking round, but when the last cup was filled, she glanced over the room. There were some ladies and gentlemen standing about. She recognized her spinster friend, Miss Mann, who looked tired; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair.
Caroline knew well that yellow hat; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated face under it; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her, for her own sake and her brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her murmured, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."


And when she _could_ look up she did, and there was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look--looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped by a pencil of keen lightning.

There was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look - looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she dared not take a second glance; for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness.


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

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


"You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore," said Shirley, also smiling. "You see there is not an inch of room for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go! John Sykes will be your _vis--vis_, and you will sit with your back towards us."

"You may sit where you can, Mr. Moore," said Shirley, also smiling. "There is not an inch of room for you here; but I see plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go!"


Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was. He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen in his own placeless predicament; but still he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he returned, observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.

Moore, however, preferred lingering where he was. He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing to exchange greetings with other gentlemen; but he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.


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

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


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

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


Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatical-looking countenance, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, that he found a climate there calculated to agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe--the whole turmoil, in short--to one side, he installed himself where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her features altered their lines; the raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became straight again; wilfulness and roguery gave place to other expressions; and all the angular movements with which she had vexed the soul of Sam Wynne were conjured to rest as by a charm. Still no gracious glance was cast on Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with being the cause of depriving her of the esteem of Mr. Ramsden and the invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.

Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatic face, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, which would agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting aside the waiters, the napkins, and the satin robe, he sat next to Shirley.
She subsided. The wilfulness and roguery left her face; but no gracious glance was cast on Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with depriving her of the company of Mr. Ramsden and Mr. Samuel Wynne.


"Wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world," she averred. "I have always been accustomed to treat both with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to you, how they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my neighbours. So to-morrow I must make a pilgrimage to Royd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise the grain; and next day I must call at De Walden--where I hate to go--and carry in my reticule half an oatcake to give to Mr. Sam's favourite pointers."

"I wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world," she said. "Owing to you, how ill they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my neighbours."