Shirley never laughed at her former governess; even the little formalities and harmless peculiarities of that lady were respectable in her eyes. Had it been otherwise, she would have proved herself a weak character at once; for it is only the weak who make a butt of quiet worth. Therefore she took her remonstrance in silence. She stood quietly near the window, looking at the grand cedar on her lawn watching a bird on one of its lower boughs. Presently she began to chirrup to the bird; soon her chirrup grew clearer; ere long she was whistling; the whistle struck into a tune, and very sweetly and deftly it was executed.

Shirley never laughed at her former governess; therefore she took her remonstrance in silence. She stood near the window, looking at the grand cedar on her lawn, watching a bird on one of its boughs. Presently she began to chirrup to the bird; her chirrup grew clearer; before long she was whistling a tune, very deftly.


"Was I whistling?" said Shirley. "I forgot. I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had resolved to take care not to whistle before you."

"Was I whistling?" said Shirley. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had resolved not to whistle in your company.


"But, Miss Keeldar, where did you learn to whistle? You must have got the habit since you came down into Yorkshire. I never knew you guilty of it before."


"Oh! I learned to whistle a long while ago."


"No one. I took it up by listening, and I had laid it down again. But lately, yesterday evening, as I was coming up our lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very tune in the field on the other side of the hedge, and that reminded me."

But yesterday evening, as I was coming up our lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very tune on the other side of the hedge, and that reminded me."


"We have only one gentleman in this region, ma'am, and that is Mr. Moore--at least he is the only gentleman who is not gray-haired. My two venerable favourites, Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaus, infinitely better than any of the stupid young ones."

"Mr. Moore - the only gentleman in the neighbourhood who is not grey-haired. My two venerable favourites, Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaus, infinitely better than any of the stupid young ones."


"You do not like Mr. Helstone, ma'am?" asked Shirley.


"My dear, Mr. Helstone's office secures him from criticism."


"You generally contrive to leave the room when he is announced."

"You generally leave the room when he is announced."


"Do you walk out this morning, my dear?"


"Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and seek and find Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise. She shall have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common."

"Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and find Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise. She shall have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common."


"If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh wind, and she appears to me to require care."

"If you do, my dear, please remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh wind, and she appears to me to require care."


"You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor. Meantime, will you not accompany us yourself?"

"You shall be obeyed, Mrs. Pryor. Will you not accompany us?"


"No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you. I am stout, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish to do."

"No, my love; I cannot walk so quickly as you."


Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing the extensive and solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into conversation. The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talk with Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight observations sufficed to give each an idea of what the other was. Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath on its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors. She had seen moors when she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry but sunless day in summer. They journeyed from noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep, nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.

Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and when they were out on the quiet road, traversing the solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into conversation. The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline felt glad to talk with Miss Keeldar. Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common, and, better still, the heath on its ridges, which reminded her of moors. She had seen moors when she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a journey on a sultry day, when they had crossed what seemed a boundless waste of deep heath, and had seen nothing but wild sheep, heard nothing but the cries of wild birds.


"I know how the heath would look on such a day," said Caroline; "purple-black--a deeper shade of the sky-tint, and that would be livid."

"I know how the heath would look on such a day," said Caroline; "purple-black - a deeper shade of the sky, and that would be livid."


"Yes, quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would kindle into blinding lightning."

"Yes, there were brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, which you expected would kindle into lightning."


"It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn--that inn being an isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains."

"It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn at the foot of a range of mountains.


"Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?"


"I did. I stood at the window an hour watching them. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from the prospect; they were washed from the world."

I stood at the window an hour watching the clouds come down. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain fell in sheets, suddenly they were blotted out; they were washed from the world."


"I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire; and at their riotous climax, while the sky was all cataract, the earth all flood, I have remembered the Deluge."

"I have seen such storms in Yorkshire, and they made me think of the Deluge.


"It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a consolatory gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not quenched."


"Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale and wood."

Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look at Nunnely dale and wood."


They both halted on the green brow of the common. They looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it. On Nunnwood--the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all silvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather--slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing.

They halted on the green brow of the common, and looked down on the deep valley; on meadows, some pearled with daisies, some golden with king-cups. On Nunnwood - the sole remnant of an ancient forest - slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, like a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations.


"Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."


"I am--Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield Church. I drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us."

"I am. Five generations of my race sleep under Briarfield Church."


Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly taken and shaken. "We are compatriots," said she.

Caroline offered her hand, which was accordingly shaken. "We are compatriots," said she.


"Yes," agreed Shirley, with a grave nod.


"And that," asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest--"that is Nunnwood?"


"Were you ever in the heart of Nunnwood?"


"It is like an encampment of forest sons of Anak. The trees are huge and old. When you stand at their roots, the summits seem in another region. The trunks remain still and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in high wind a flood rushes, a sea thunders above you."

"The trees are huge and old, with trunks as firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in a high wind a sea thunders above you.


"Was it not one of Robin Hood's haunts?"


"Yes, and there are mementos of him still existing. To penetrate into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into the dim days of old. Can you see a break in the forest, about the centre?"


"That break is a dell--a deep, hollow cup, lined with turf as green and short as the sod of this common. The very oldest of the trees, gnarled mighty oaks, crowd about the brink of this dell. In the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery."

That is a dell, lined with green, and crowded about with the very oldest oaks. In the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery."


"We will go--you and I alone, Caroline--to that wood, early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day there. We can take pencils and sketch-books, and any interesting reading book we like; and of course we shall take something to eat. I have two little baskets, in which Mrs. Gill, my housekeeper, might pack our provisions, and we could each carry our own. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?"

"We will go - you and I, Caroline - to that wood, early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day there. We can take pencils and sketch-books, and any interesting reading book we like; and of course something to eat. We could carry our own provisions. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?"


"Oh no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood. And I know all the pleasantest spots. I know where we could get nuts in nutting time; I know where wild strawberries abound; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as if gilded, some a sober gray, some gem-green. I know groups of trees that ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects--rude oak, delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and ash trees stately as Saul, standing isolated; and superannuated wood-giants clad in bright shrouds of ivy. Miss Keeldar, I could guide you."

"Oh no; especially if we rested in the wood. And I know all the pleasantest spots. I know where wild strawberries abound; I know some lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses. I know groups of trees that ravish the eye - oak, delicate birch, glossy beech; and ash trees stately as Saul, standing isolated; and wood-giants clad in bright shrouds of ivy. Miss Keeldar, I could guide you."


"I should not. I think we should suit; and what third person is there whose presence would not spoil our pleasure?"

"I should not. I think we should suit; and what third person is there who would not spoil our pleasure?"


"Indeed, I know of none about our own ages--no lady at least; and as to gentlemen----"

"Indeed, I know of none of our own ages - no lady at least. And as to gentlemen-"


"An excursion becomes quite a different thing when there are gentlemen of the party," interrupted Caroline.

"An excursion becomes quite a different thing when there are gentlemen," interrupted Caroline.


"I agree with you--quite a different thing to what we were proposing."


"We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden silence, and above all by quietude."

"We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a day in quietude."


"You are right; and the presence of gentlemen dispels the last charm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort, like your Malones, and your young Sykes, and Wynnes, irritation takes the place of serenity. If they are of the right sort, there is still a change; I can hardly tell what change--one easy to feel, difficult to describe."

"You are right; and the presence of gentlemen dispels the last charm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort, like your Malones, and your young Sykes, irritation takes the place of serenity. If they are of the right sort, there is still a change that is difficult to describe."


"And then Nature forgets us, covers her vast calm brow with a dim veil, conceals her face, and withdraws the peaceful joy with which, if we had been content to worship her only, she would have filled our hearts."

"And then Nature forgets us, and withdraws the peaceful joy with which she would have filled our hearts.


"More elation and more anxiety; an excitement that steals the hours away fast, and a trouble that ruffles their course."


"Our power of being happy lies a good deal in ourselves, I believe," remarked Caroline sagely. "I have gone to Nunnwood with a large party--all the curates and some other gentry of these parts, together with sundry ladies--and I found the affair insufferably tedious and absurd; and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, who sat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the goodwife, while I roamed about and made sketches, or read; and I have enjoyed much happiness of a quiet kind all day long. But that was when I was young--two years ago."

"Our power of being happy lies a good deal in ourselves, I believe," remarked Caroline. "I have gone to Nunnwood with a large party - all the curates and other gentry and ladies - and I found it insufferably tedious; and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied only by Fanny, and have roamed about and sketched, or read; and enjoyed much quiet happiness. But that was when I was young - two years ago."


"Did you ever go with your cousin, Robert Moore?"


"What sort of a companion is he on these occasions?"


"A cousin, you know, is different to a stranger."


"I am aware of that; but cousins, if they are stupid, are still more insupportable than strangers, because you cannot so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin is not stupid?"

"I am aware of that; but cousins, if they are stupid, are more insupportable than strangers, because you cannot so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin is not stupid?"


"If the company of fools irritates, as you say, the society of clever men leaves its own peculiar pain also. Where the goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all doubt, your own worthiness to be his associate often becomes a matter of question."

the society of clever men brings its own peculiar pain also. You wonder whether you are worthy to be his associate."


"Oh! there I cannot follow you. That crotchet is not one I should choose to entertain for an instant. I consider myself not unworthy to be the associate of the best of them--of gentlemen, I mean--though that is saying a great deal. Where they are good, they are very good, I believe. Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad specimen of the elderly gentleman. I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, either in my own house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now, speak the truth."

"Oh! there I cannot follow you," cried Shirley. "I consider myself worthy to be the associate of the best of gentlemen. Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad specimen of the elderly gentleman. I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now, speak the truth."


"He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not, precisely as he would have brought up his own daughter, if he had had one; and that is kindness. But I am not fond of him. I would rather be out of his presence than in it."


"Strange, when he has the art of making himself so agreeable."

"Strange, when he makes himself so agreeable."


"Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts away his cane and shovel-hat in the rectory hall, so he locks his liveliness in his book-case and study-desk: the knitted brow and brief word for the fireside; the smile, the jest, the witty sally for society."

"Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts away his hat in the rectory hall, so he locks away his liveliness: the smile and jest are for society."


"Not in the least. He is neither tyrannical nor hypocritical. He is simply a man who is rather liberal than good-natured, rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously equitable than truly just--if you can understand such superfine distinctions."

asked Shirley.
"Not in the least. He is simply a man who is liberal rather than good-natured, and scrupulously equitable rather than truly just - if you understand me."


"Oh yes! Good-nature implies indulgence, which he has not; geniality, warmth of heart, which he does not own; and genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can well conceive, my bronzed old friend is quite innocent."

"Oh yes! Genuine justice springs from sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can imagine, my bronzed old friend is quite devoid."


"I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and unfamiliar to them in order to seem agreeable or estimable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection for those they see every day."

"I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle at home; whether it is necessary for us to be new and unfamiliar to them in order to seem agreeable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible for them to retain a constant interest and affection for those people they see every day."


"I don't know. I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different from us--fickle, soon petrifying, unsympathizing--I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse than useless, since it was inevitably in its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away, to remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure."

"I don't know. I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But if I were convinced they were all hard and unsympathizing, I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, and never could despite any effort I might make to please. Once I made that discovery, I would long to go away."


"But you could not if you were married."


"No, I could not. There it is. I could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! It suffocates me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore--an inevitable burden, a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous, I can comfortably fold my independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married, that could not be."

"No, I could not. There it is. I could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! It suffocates me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous, I can comfortably fold my independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married, that could not be."


"I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single," said Caroline. "We should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any rate, as doing a foolish thing."

"I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single," said Caroline. "We should if we listened to my uncle. He always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married, he regards him as a fool."


"But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle. Surely not. I hope not."

"But, Caroline, surely men are not all like your uncle."


"I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we _are_ married," suggested Caroline.

"I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we are married," suggested Caroline.


"I suppose so. And this exception we believe to be of sterling materials. We fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that will never harden against us; we read in his eyes that faithful feeling--affection. I don't think we should trust to what they call passion at all, Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing. But we watch him, and see him kind to animals, to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise, good, considerate. He does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as _we_ like him--because we like him. Then we observe that he is just, that he always speaks the truth, that he is conscientious. We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room; we feel sadness and trouble when he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother. Will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?"

"I suppose so. And we fancy him to be like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice promises a heart that will never harden against us; we read faithful affection in his eyes. I don't think we should trust to what they call passion, Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing. But we see him kind to animals, to children, to poor people, and kind to us likewise, good, considerate. He does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and seems to find their company congenial. Then we observe that he is just, that he always speaks the truth, that he is conscientious. We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room; we feel sad when he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, and a kind brother. Will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?"


"My uncle would affirm it unhesitatingly. 'He will be sick of you in a month,' he would say."

"My uncle would say it unhesitatingly. 'He will be sick of you in a month,' he would say."


"Mrs. Pryor would seriously intimate the same."

"Mrs. Pryor would seriously hint the same."


"Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest ditto."


"If they are true oracles, it is good never to fall in love."

"If they are right," said Shirley, "it is good never to fall in love."


"I am afraid that proves you are already caught."

"I am afraid that proves you are already caught," said Caroline.


"Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers I would consult?"


"Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young: the little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door; the mouse that steals out of the cranny in the wainscot; the bird that in frost and snow pecks at my window for a crumb; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee."

neither man nor woman, but the mouse that steals out of the wainscot; the bird that pecks at my window for a crumb; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee.


"Did you ever see any one who was kind to such things?"


"Did you ever see any one whom such things seemed instinctively to follow, like, rely on?"

Did you ever see anyone whom such creatures seemed instinctively to rely on?"


"We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his tail, and whines affectionately when somebody passes."

"We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody onto whose knee that black cat loves to climb; and the old dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his tail, and whines affectionately when somebody passes."


"He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he conveniently can; and when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down, and never flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress."

"He quietly strokes the cat, and when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress."


"Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled.


"Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut features, and a clear, princely forehead?"


"He has all that, Caroline. Bless him! he is both graceful and good."

"Bless him! he is both graceful and good."


"I was sure you would see that he was. When I first looked at your face I knew you would."


"I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked him when I did see him. I admire him now. There is charm in beauty for itself, Caroline; when it is blent with goodness, there is a powerful charm."

"I liked him when I met him. I admire him now. When beauty is blended with goodness, Caroline, there is a powerful charm."


"Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and Mann."


"Remember the croaking of the frogs of Egypt. He is a noble being. I tell you when they _are_ good they are the lords of the creation--they are the sons of God. Moulded in their Maker's image, the minutest spark of His spirit lifts them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great, good, handsome man is the first of created things."

He is a noble being. I tell you when they are good they are the lords of the creation - they are the sons of God. Indisputably, a great, good, handsome man is the first of created things."


"I would scorn to contend for empire with him--I would scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with my right? Shall my heart quarrel with my pulse? Shall my veins be jealous of the blood which fills them?"

"I would scorn to contend for empire with him. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with my right? Shall my heart quarrel with my pulse?"


"Men and women, husbands and wives, quarrel horribly, Shirley."

"Husbands and wives quarrel horribly, Shirley.


"Poor things! Poor, fallen, degenerate things! God made them for another lot, for other feelings."


"But are we men's equals, or are we not?"


"Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my superior--one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my superior."

"Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my superior - one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my superior.


"I should be glad to see him any day. The higher above me, so much the better. It degrades to stoop; it is glorious to look up. What frets me is, that when I try to esteem, I am baffled; when religiously inclined, there are but false gods to adore. I disdain to be a pagan."

It degrades to stoop; it is glorious to look up. What frets me is that when I try to esteem, I am baffled."


"Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We are here at the rectory gates."

"Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We are now at the rectory gates."


"Not to-day, but to-morrow I shall fetch you to spend the evening with me. Caroline Helstone, if you really are what at present to me you seem, you and I will suit. I have never in my whole life been able to talk to a young lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me--and good-bye."

"Not today, but tomorrow I shall fetch you to spend the evening with me. Caroline Helstone, if you really are what at present you seem, you and I will suit. I have never in my whole life been able to talk to a young lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me - and good-bye."


Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called on an early day at the rectory. She came in the afternoon, when the rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day; the heat of the weather had flushed her, and she seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of entering a strange house, for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded. When Miss Helstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on the sofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming to contend with a nervous discomposure that threatened to become hysterical.

Mrs. Pryor seemed as friendly as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called at the rectory one afternoon, when the rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day; the heat had flushed her, and she seemed flustered too at entering a strange house. She sat on the sofa, trembling, and fanning herself with her handkerchief with nervous discomposure.


Caroline marvelled somewhat at this unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of real strength in one who appeared almost robust--for Mrs. Pryor hastened to allege the fatigue of her walk, the heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporary indisposition; and still as, with more hurry than coherence, she again and again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently sought to relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her bonnet. Attentions of this sort Mrs. Pryor would not have accepted from every one. In general she recoiled from touch or close approach with a mixture of embarrassment and coldness far from flattering to those who offered her aid. To Miss Helstone's little light hand, however, she yielded tractably, and seemed soothed by its contact. In a few minutes she ceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.

Caroline marvelled at this unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of strength in one who appeared robust - for Mrs. Pryor said repeatedly that the fatigue of her walk and the heat were the reasons for her weakness. Caroline gently removed her shawl and bonnet: attentions that Mrs. Pryor would not have accepted from everyone. In general she recoiled from touch with embarrassment and coldness. To Miss Helstone's little light hand, however, she yielded, and seemed soothed. In a few minutes she ceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.


Her usual manner being resumed, she proceeded to talk of ordinary topics. In a miscellaneous company Mrs. Pryor rarely opened her lips, or, if obliged to speak, she spoke under restraint, and consequently not well; in dialogue she was a good converser. Her language, always a little formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just; her information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it pleasant to listen to her, more pleasant than she could have anticipated.

Her usual manner being resumed, she began to talk of ordinary topics. She was a good converser. Her language, always a little formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just; her information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it more pleasant to listen to her than she could have anticipated.


On the wall opposite the sofa where they sat hung three pictures--the centre one, above the mantelpiece, that of a lady; the two others, male portraits.

On the wall opposite them hung three pictures - the centre one, that of a lady; the two others, male portraits.


"That is a beautiful face," said Mrs. Pryor, interrupting a brief pause which had followed half an hour's animated conversation. "The features may be termed perfect; no statuary's chisel could improve them. It is a portrait from the life, I presume?"

"That is a beautiful face," said Mrs. Pryor, after a brief pause. "It is a portrait from the life, I presume?"


"Of Mrs. Matthewson Helstone? Of your uncle's wife?"


"It is, and is said to be a good likeness. Before her marriage she was accounted the beauty of the district."

"It is, and is said to be a good likeness. Before her marriage she was thought the beauty of the district."


"I should say she merited the distinction. What accuracy in all the lineaments! It is, however, a passive face. The original could not have been what is generally termed 'a woman of spirit.'"

"I should say she was. It is, however, a passive face. She could not have been what is generally termed 'a woman of spirit.'"


"I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person."

"I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person," said Caroline.


"One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your uncle's choice should have fallen on a partner of that description. Is he not fond of being amused by lively chat?"

"One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your uncle should have chosen a partner of that description. Is he not fond of being amused by lively chat?"


"In company he is. But he always says he could never do with a talking wife. He must have quiet at home. You go out to gossip, he affirms; you come home to read and reflect."

"In company he is. But he always says he could never do with a talking wife. He must have quiet at home."


"Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years after her marriage, I think I have heard?"

"Mrs. Matthewson lived only a few years after her marriage, I believe?"


"Well, my dear," pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, "I trust it is understood that you will frequently come to Fieldhead. I hope you will. You must feel lonely here, having no female relative in the house; you must necessarily pass much of your time in solitude."

"Well, my dear," pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, "I hope you will frequently come to Fieldhead. You must feel lonely here, having no female relative in the house; you must pass much of your time alone."


"I am inured to it. I have grown up by myself. May I arrange your shawl for you?"


"Should you chance to require help in your studies," she said, "you may command me."

"Should you require help in your studies," she said, "you may command me.


Caroline expressed her sense of such kindness.


"I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I should wish to be of use to you."


Again Miss Helstone returned thanks. She thought what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming chilliness. Observing that Mrs. Pryor again glanced with an air of interest towards the portraits, as she walked down the room, Caroline casually explained: "The likeness that hangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken twenty years ago; the other, to the left of the mantelpiece, is his brother James, my father."

Miss Helstone thanked her, thinking what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming chilliness. Observing that Mrs. Pryor again glanced at the portraits, Caroline explained:
"The likeness that hangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken twenty years ago; the other is his brother James, my father."


"They resemble each other in some measure," said Mrs. Pryor; "yet a difference of character may be traced in the different mould of the brow and mouth."

"They resemble each other," said Mrs. Pryor; "yet a difference of character may be traced in the brow and mouth."


"What difference?" inquired Caroline, accompanying her to the door. "James Helstone--that is, my father--is generally considered the best-looking of the two. Strangers, I remark, always exclaim, 'What a handsome man!' Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor?"

"What difference?" inquired Caroline, accompanying her to the door. "James Helstone - my father - is generally considered by strangers to be the better-looking of the two. Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor?"


"It is much softer or finer featured than that of your uncle."

"It is much finer featured than that of your uncle."


"But where or what is the difference of character to which you alluded? Tell me. I wish to see if you guess right."

"But what is the difference of character you mean? Tell me. I wish to see if you guess right."


"My dear, your uncle is a man of principle. His forehead and his lips are firm, and his eye is steady."


"Well, and the other? Do not be afraid of offending me. I always like the truth."

"And my father? Do not be afraid of offending me. I always like the truth."


"Do you like the truth? It is well for you. Adhere to that preference--never swerve thence. The other, my dear, if he had been living now, would probably have furnished little support to his daughter. It is, however, a graceful head--taken in youth, I should think. My dear" (turning abruptly), "you acknowledge an inestimable value in principle?"

"Do you like the truth? Good. Keep to that preference. The other, my dear, if he had been living now, would probably have given little support to his daughter. It is, however, a graceful head. My dear" (turning abruptly), "you believe in the importance of principle?"


"I am sure no character can have true worth without it."


"You feel what you say? You have considered the subject?"


"Often. Circumstances early forced it upon my attention."


"The lesson was not lost, then, though it came so prematurely. I suppose the soil is not light nor stony, otherwise seed falling in that season never would have borne fruit. My dear, do not stand in the air of the door; you will take cold. Good-afternoon."

"The lesson was not lost, then, though it came so prematurely. My dear, do not stand in the draught; you will take cold. Good-afternoon."


Miss Helstone's new acquaintance soon became of value to her: their society was acknowledged a privilege. She found she would have been in error indeed to have let slip this chance of relief, to have neglected to avail herself of this happy change. A turn was thereby given to her thoughts; a new channel was opened for them, which, diverting a few of them at least from the one direction in which all had hitherto tended, abated the impetuosity of their rush, and lessened the force of their pressure on one worn-down point.

Miss Helstone's new acquaintances soon became of value to her: their society was, she felt, a privilege and a chance of relief. A new turn was given to her thoughts, lessening the force of their pressure on one worn-down point.


Soon she was content to spend whole days at Fieldhead, doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished her to do; and now one would claim her, now the other. Nothing could be less demonstrative than the friendship of the elder lady, but also nothing could be more vigilant, assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a peculiar personage, and in nothing was her peculiarity more shown than in the nature of the interest she evinced for Caroline. She watched all her movements; she seemed as if she would have guarded all her steps. It gave her pleasure to be applied to by Miss Helstone for advice and assistance. She yielded her aid, when asked, with such quiet yet obvious enjoyment that Caroline ere long took delight in depending on her.

Soon she was content to spend whole days at Fieldhead, doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished; now one would claim her, now the other. The elder lady was not demonstrative, but she was assiduous. I have hinted that she was a peculiar person, and this was evident in the interest she showed in Caroline. She watched all her movements; it seemed as if she wished to guard her steps. It gave her pleasure to be asked by Miss Helstone for advice. She gave her aid with such quiet enjoyment that Caroline before long took delight in depending on her.


Shirley Keeldar's complete docility with Mrs. Pryor had at first surprised Miss Helstone, and not less the fact of the reserved ex-governess being so much at home and at ease in the residence of her young pupil, where she filled with such quiet independency a very dependent post; but she soon found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehend fully the enigma. Every one, it seemed to her, must like, must love, must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. No matter that she perseveringly wore old-fashioned gowns; that her speech was formal and her manner cool; that she had twenty little ways such as nobody else had: she was still such a stay, such a counsellor, so truthful, so kind in her way, that, in Caroline's idea, none once accustomed to her presence could easily afford to dispense with it.

Shirley Keeldar's complete docility with Mrs. Pryor had at first surprised Caroline, as did the fact of the reserved ex-governess being so much at ease in the house of her young pupil; but she soon found everyone must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. Despite her old-fashioned gowns and formal speech, she was a kind and truthful counsellor.


As to dependency or humiliation, Caroline did not feel it in her intercourse with Shirley, and why should Mrs. Pryor? The heiress was rich--very rich--compared with her new friend: one possessed a clear thousand a year, the other not a penny; and yet there was a safe sense of equality experienced in her society, never known in that of the ordinary Briarfield and Whinbury gentry.

As to dependency or inferiority - Caroline did not feel it in talking to Shirley, so why would Mrs. Pryor? Shirley was rich: she possessed a thousand a year, and Caroline not a penny; and yet there was a safe sense of equality when with her, never known with the ordinary Briarfield gentry.


The reason was, Shirley's head ran on other things than money and position. She was glad to be independent as to property; by fits she was even elated at the notion of being lady of the manor, and having tenants and an estate. She was especially tickled with an agreeable complacency when reminded of "all that property" down in the Hollow, "comprising an excellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse, together with the messuage, gardens, and outbuildings, termed Hollow's Cottage;" but her exultation being quite undisguised was singularly inoffensive; and, for her serious thoughts, they tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence the good, and be joyous with the genial, was very much the bent of Shirley's soul: she mused, therefore, on the means of following this bent far oftener than she pondered on her social superiority.

The reason was that Shirley's head ran on other things than money and position. She was glad to be independent; at times she was even elated at the notion of being lady of the manor, and having tenants and an estate. She was especially tickled when reminded of "all that property" down in the Hollow - the mills, gardens and cottage; but her serious thoughts tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence the good, and be joyous with the genial, was very much Shirley's way, rather than thinking of her social superiority.


In Caroline Miss Keeldar had first taken an interest because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed as if she needed some one to take care of her. Her predilection increased greatly when she discovered that her own way of thinking and talking was understood and responded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly expected it. Miss Helstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice too soft, to be anything out of the common way in mind and attainments; and she very much wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to the reveille of a dry sally or two risked by herself; and more did she wonder to discover the self-won knowledge treasured, and the untaught speculations working in that girlish, curl-veiled head. Caroline's instinct of taste, too, was like her own. Such books as Miss Keeldar had read with the most pleasure were Miss Helstone's delight also. They held many aversions too in common, and could have the comfort of laughing together over works of false sentimentality and pompous pretension.

Miss Keeldar had first taken an interest in Caroline because she was quiet, and looked delicate and in need of care. Her liking increased greatly when she discovered that Caroline understood and responded to her own way of thinking and talking. She had hardly expected it. Miss Helstone, she fancied, looked too pretty and soft to be anything out of the common way; and she wondered at the self-won knowledge and speculations working in that girlish head.
Caroline's taste, too, was like her own. They delighted in the same books, and could have the comfort of laughing together over works of false sentimentality and pompous pretension.


Few, Shirley conceived, men or women have the right taste in poetry, the right sense for discriminating between what is real and what is false. She had again and again heard very clever people pronounce this or that passage, in this or that versifier, altogether admirable, which, when she read, her soul refused to acknowledge as anything but cant, flourish, and tinsel, or at the best elaborate wordiness, curious, clever, learned, perhaps, haply even tinged with the fascinating hues of fancy, but, God knows, as different from real poetry as the gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic is from the little cup of pure metal; or, to give the reader a choice of similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from the fresh-gathered lily of the field.


Caroline, she found, felt the value of the true ore, and knew the deception of the flashy dross. The minds of the two girls being toned in harmony often chimed very sweetly together.

Caroline, she found, could tell the true from the false. The minds of the two girls often chimed sweetly in harmony.


One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without _ennui_. It was now on the edge of dark; candles were not yet brought in; both, as twilight deepened, grew meditative and silent. A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean; all was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at the window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain notes of the gale that plained like restless spirits--notes which, had she not been so young, gay, and healthy, would have swept her trembling nerves like some omen, some anticipatory dirge. In this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty they but subdued vivacity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza. Her accents obeyed the fitful impulse of the wind; they swelled as its gusts rushed on, and died as they wandered away. Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the room, her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, muttering to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singing softly, she listened. This was the strain:--

One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without tedium. It was now almost dark; candles were not yet brought in; both were meditative and silent.
A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain; all was tempest outside, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at the window, listening to the restless complaints of the gale, which made her pensive. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza, obeying the fitful impulse of the wind. Caroline, at the darkest end of the room, was just discernible by the ruby shine of the fire, pacing to and fro, muttering fragments of poetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her:


"Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left."

"'Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.'"


Here the fragment stopped, because Shirley's song, erewhile somewhat full and thrilling, had become delicately faint.


"Then you go on too. I was only repeating 'The Castaway.'"


"I know. If you can remember it all, say it all."

"I know. If you can remember it, say it all."


And as it was nearly dark, and, after all, Miss Keeldar was no formidable auditor, Caroline went through it. She went through it as she should have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realized by her; and more vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep for "The Castaway," but who, in an hour of tearless anguish, traced a semblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled,--

So Caroline went through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm, were made real by her; and so was the heart of the poet, who wept for his own God-abandoned misery, and cried from the depths:


"No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished--each alone! But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he."

"'No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished - each alone!
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.'


"I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now," said Caroline.

"I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now," continued Caroline.


"Do you pity what he suffered on earth?" asked Miss Keeldar.


"Pity him, Shirley? What can I do else? He was nearly broken-hearted when he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in writing it--I know he did; and that gift of poetry--the most divine bestowed on man--was, I believe, granted to allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It seems to me, Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect or attainment. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares for learning--who cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care for feeling--real feeling--however simply, even rudely expressed?"

"Poor man: he was nearly broken-hearted when he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in writing it - I know he did. It seems to me, Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to show off intellect. Who cares for that sort of poetry? And who does not care for real feeling?"


"It seems you care for it, at all events; and certainly, in hearing that poem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship--an impulse which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve the whole with consummate perfection. You managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline. I wonder thereat."

"It seems you care for it; yet you managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline."


"Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines. Why should my voice falter in repeating them? Depend on it, Shirley, no tear blistered the manuscript of 'The Castaway.' I hear in it no sob of sorrow, only the cry of despair; but, that cry uttered, I believe the deadly spasm passed from his heart, that he wept abundantly, and was comforted."

"Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines. Why should my voice falter in repeating them? I believe that in writing 'The Castaway' the deadly spasm passed from his heart, he wept abundantly, and was comforted."


Shirley resumed her ballad minstrelsy. Stopping short, she remarked ere long, "One could have loved Cowper, if it were only for the sake of having the privilege of comforting him."

Shirley remarked, "One could have loved Cowper, if it were only for the sake of comforting him."


"You never would have loved Cowper," rejoined Caroline promptly. "He was not made to be loved by woman."


"What I say. I know there is a kind of natures in the world--and very noble, elevated natures too--whom love never comes near. You might have sought Cowper with the intention of loving him, and you would have looked at him, pitied him, and left him, forced away by a sense of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from their drowning comrade by 'the furious blast.'"

"What I say. I know there are natures in the world - and very noble natures too - whom love never comes near. You might have sought Cowper with the intention of loving him, and you would have looked at him, pitied him, and left him, forced away by a sense of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from their drowning comrade by 'the furious blast.'"


"And what I say of Cowper, I should say of Rousseau. Was Rousseau ever loved? He loved passionately; but was his passion ever returned? I am certain, never. And if there were any female Cowpers and Rousseaus, I should assert the same of them."

"And what I say of Cowper, I say of Rousseau. Was he ever loved? He loved passionately; but was his passion ever returned? I am certain, never. And if there were any female Cowpers and Rousseaus, I should say the same of them."


"Why should anybody have told me? Have I not an instinct? Can I not divine by analogy? Moore never talked to me either about Cowper, or Rousseau, or love. The voice we hear in solitude told me all I know on these subjects."

"Why should anybody have told me? Have I not an instinct? Moore never talked to me either about Cowper, or Rousseau, or love."


"Do you like characters of the Rousseau order, Caroline?"

"Do you like characters of the Rousseau type, Caroline?"


"Not at all, as a whole. I sympathize intensely with certain qualities they possess. Certain divine sparks in their nature dazzle my eyes, and make my soul glow. Then, again, I scorn them. They are made of clay and gold. The refuse and the ore make a mass of weakness: taken altogether, I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive."

"Not at all, as a whole. I sympathize intensely with certain dazzling qualities they possess. But they are made of clay and gold: taken altogether, I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive."


"I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than you would, Cary. Submissive and contemplative yourself, you like the stern and the practical. By the way, you must miss that Cousin Robert of yours very much, now that you and he never meet."

"I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than you would, Cary. By the way, you must miss that Cousin Robert of yours very much, now that you and he never meet."


"I cannot imagine," pursued Shirley, who had lately got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation, even when it seemed to have no business there--"I cannot imagine but that he was fond of you, since he took so much notice of you, talked to you, and taught you so much."

"I imagine," pursued Shirley, who had lately got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation, even when it seemed to have no business there - "I imagine that he was fond of you, since he took so much notice of you."


"He never was fond of me; he never professed to be fond of me. He took pains to prove that he only just tolerated me."

"He never was fond of me; he took pains to prove he only just tolerated me."


Caroline, determined not to err on the flattering side in estimating her cousin's regard for her, always now habitually thought of it and mentioned it in the most scanty measure. She had her own reasons for being less sanguine than ever in hopeful views of the future, less indulgent to pleasurable retrospections of the past.

Caroline now habitually thought of Robert's feelings in this scanty measure. She had her own reasons for being less sanguine than ever about hopeful views of the future.


"Of course, then," observed Miss Keeldar, "you only just tolerated him in return?"


"Shirley, men and women are so different; they are in such a different position. Women have so few things to think about, men so many. You may have a friendship for a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Much of what cheers your life may be dependent on him, while not a feeling or interest of moment in his eyes may have reference to you. Robert used to be in the habit of going to London, sometimes for a week or a fortnight together. Well, while he was away, I found his absence a void. There was something wanting; Briarfield was duller. Of course, I had my usual occupations; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings, I used to feel a strange certainty of conviction I cannot describe, that if a magician or a genius had, at that moment, offered me Prince Ali's tube (you remember it in the 'Arabian Nights'?), and if, with its aid, I had been enabled to take a view of Robert--to see where he was, how occupied--I should have learned, in a startling manner, the width of the chasm which gaped between such as he and such as I. I knew that, however my thoughts might adhere to him, his were effectually sundered from me."

"Shirley, men and women are so different; women have so few things to think about, men so many. You may have a friendship for a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Robert used to go to London sometimes for a week or a fortnight. Well, while he was away, I found his absence a void. Of course, I had my usual occupations; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings, I used to feel a strange conviction that if I could magically see Robert - where he was, how occupied - I should learn the width of the chasm between us."


"Caroline," demanded Miss Keeldar abruptly, "don't you wish you had a profession--a trade?"

"Caroline," demanded Miss Keeldar abruptly, "don't you wish you had a profession?"


"I wish it fifty times a day. As it is, I often wonder what I came into the world for. I long to have something absorbing and compulsory to fill my head and hands and to occupy my thoughts."

"I wish it fifty times a day. I often wonder what I came into the world for. I long to have something absorbing to fill my head and hands and to occupy my thoughts.


"Can labour alone make a human being happy?"


"No; but it can give varieties of pain, and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant master-torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense; a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none."

, but it can prevent us from breaking our hearts with a tyrant pain. Besides, successful labour has its reward."


"But hard labour and learned professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly."

"But labour and professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly."


"And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that they should not absolutely offend men's eyes as they pass them in the street; for the rest, they should be allowed, without too much scorn, to be as absorbed, grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please."

"And what does it signify if never-to-be-married women are unattractive or not? Provided they are decorous and neat, it is enough. Old maids should be allowed to be as grave and plain-looking as they please."


"You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak so earnestly."


"I shall be one. It is my destiny. I will never marry a Malone or a Sykes; and no one else will ever marry me."


Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on her lips.


"Lina--did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?"

"Lina - did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?"


"Yes. It is sometimes used as the abbreviation of Caroline in his native country."

"Yes. It is short for Caroline in his native country."


"Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing an inequality in your hair--a curl wanting on that right side--and your telling me that it was Robert's fault, as he had once cut therefrom a long lock?"

"Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing a curl missing from your hair, and your telling me that it was Robert's fault, as he had once cut off a lock?"


"If he is, and always was, as indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair?"

"If he was as indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair?"


"I don't know--yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of that sort always was my doing. He was going from home--to London, as usual; and the night before he went, I had found in his sister's workbox a lock of black hair--a short, round curl. Hortense told me it was her brother's, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked at his head. He has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such round curls. I thought he could spare me one. I knew I should like to have it, and I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have his choice of a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine. It was my doing, and one of those silly deeds it distresses the heart and sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny penknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit alone, sudden, insane-sounding interjections."

"I don't know - yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. He was going to London; and the night before he went, I had found in his sister's workbox a short lock of black hair. Hortense told me it was her brother's, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. He has plenty of hair; I thought he could spare me one curl, so I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine. It was one of those silly deeds it distresses the heart and sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny penknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit alone, sudden, insane-sounding interjections."


"I _do_ think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respects; I _do_ despise myself. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily you watch me now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye; it is an insult to fix it on me thus."

"I do think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respects. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily you watch me now, like an eagle!"


"What a study of character you are--weak, certainly, but not in the sense you think!--Come in!"

"What a study of character you are. - Come in!"


This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Keeldar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline at the other end of the room. She saw a note put into Shirley's hands, and heard the words, "From Mr. Moore, ma'am."

This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Caroline saw the servant put a note into Shirley's hands, and heard the words, "From Mr. Moore, ma'am."


"A communication on business," said the heiress; but when candles were brought, she neither opened nor read it. The rector's Fanny was presently announced, and the rector's niece went home.

"It is a note on business." But when candles were brought, she neither opened nor read it, before Caroline went home.


While Shirley was talking with Moore, Caroline rejoined Mrs. Pryor upstairs. She found that lady deeply depressed. She would not say that Miss Keeldar's hastiness had hurt her feelings, but it was evident an inward wound galled her. To any but a congenial nature she would have seemed insensible to the quiet, tender attentions by which Miss Helstone sought to impart solace; but Caroline knew that, unmoved or slightly moved as she looked, she felt, valued, and was healed by them.

While Shirley was talking with Moore, Caroline rejoined Mrs. Pryor upstairs. She found that lady deeply depressed. Miss Helstone tried to comfort her, knowing that although Mrs. Pryor looked unmoved by her quiet, tender attentions, she valued them.


"I am deficient in self-confidence and decision," she said at last. "I always have been deficient in those qualities. Yet I think Miss Keeldar should have known my character well enough by this time to be aware that I always feel an even painful solicitude to do right, to act for the best. The unusual nature of the demand on my judgment puzzled me, especially following the alarms of the night. I could not venture to act promptly for another; but I trust no serious harm will result from my lapse of firmness."

"I am deficient in self-confidence and decision," said Mrs. Pryor. "I always have been deficient in those qualities. Yet I think Miss Keeldar should have known that I always try to do right. The unusual nature of the demand on my judgment puzzled me, especially following the alarms of the night. I trust no serious harm will result from my lapse of firmness."


A gentle knock was here heard at the door. It was half opened.


"Caroline, come here," said a low voice.


Miss Helstone went out. There stood Shirley in the gallery, looking contrite, ashamed, sorry as any repentant child.

Miss Helstone went out. There stood Shirley in the gallery, looking contrite as any repentant child.


"I have behaved very shamefully, very ungenerously, very ungratefully to her," said Shirley. "How insolent in me to turn on her thus for what, after all, was no fault--only an excess of conscientiousness on her part. But I regret my error most sincerely. Tell her so, and ask if she will forgive me."

"I have behaved very shamefully, very ungenerously to her," said Shirley. "How insolent in me to turn on her for what, after all, was only conscientiousness on her part. But I regret my error most sincerely. Tell her so, and ask if she will forgive me."


Caroline discharged the errand with heartfelt pleasure. Mrs. Pryor rose, came to the door. She did not like scenes; she dreaded them as all timid people do. She said falteringly, "Come in, my dear."

Caroline did so with pleasure. Mrs. Pryor came to the door, and said falteringly, "Come in, my dear."


Shirley did come in with some impetuosity. She threw her arms round her governess, and while she kissed her heartily she said, "You know you _must_ forgive me, Mrs. Pryor. I could not get on at all if there was a misunderstanding between you and me."

Shirley came in, and threw her arms round her governess. While she kissed her heartily she said, "You must forgive me, Mrs. Pryor."


"I have nothing to forgive," was the reply. "We will pass it over now, if you please. The final result of the incident is that it proves more plainly than ever how unequal I am to certain crises."

"I have nothing to forgive," was the reply. "We will pass it over, if you please. The incident proves plainly how unequal I am to certain crises."


And that was the painful feeling which _would_ remain on Mrs. Pryor's mind. No effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could efface it thence. She could forgive her offending pupil, not her innocent self.

And that was the painful feeling which would remain on Mrs. Pryor's mind. No effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could efface it. She could forgive her offending pupil, not her innocent self.


Miss Keeldar, doomed to be in constant request during the morning, was presently summoned downstairs again. The rector called first. A lively welcome and livelier reprimand were at his service. He expected both, and, being in high spirits, took them in equally good part.

Miss Keeldar was presently summoned downstairs again. The rector had called, in high spirits.


In the course of his brief visit he quite forgot to ask after his niece; the riot, the rioters, the mill, the magistrates, the heiress, absorbed all his thoughts to the exclusion of family ties. He alluded to the part himself and curate had taken in the defence of the Hollow.

During his brief visit he quite forgot to ask after his niece; the riot, the mill, the magistrates, the heiress, absorbed all his thoughts. He alluded to the part he himself and his curate had taken in the defence of the Hollow.


"The vials of pharisaical wrath will be emptied on our heads for our share in this business," he said; "but I defy every calumniator. I was there only to support the law, to play my part as a man and a Briton; which characters I deem quite compatible with those of the priest and Levite, in their highest sense. Your tenant Moore," he went on, "has won my approbation. A cooler commander I would not wish to see, nor a more determined. Besides, the man has shown sound judgment and good sense--first, in being thoroughly prepared for the event which has taken place; and subsequently, when his well-concerted plans had secured him success, in knowing how to use without abusing his victory. Some of the magistrates are now well frightened, and, like all cowards, show a tendency to be cruel. Moore restrains them with admirable prudence. He has hitherto been very unpopular in the neighbourhood; but, mark my words, the tide of opinion will now take a turn in his favour. People will find out that they have not appreciated him, and will hasten to remedy their error; and he, when he perceives the public disposed to acknowledge his merits, will show a more gracious mien than that with which he has hitherto favoured us."

"Wrath will fall on our heads for our share in this business," he said; "but I defy every accuser. I was there to support the law, to play my part as a man. Your tenant Moore has won my approval. A cooler, more determined commander I could not wish to see. The man has shown sound judgment and good sense - first, in being thoroughly prepared; and then in knowing how to use without abusing his victory. Some of the magistrates are frightened, and, like all cowards, show a tendency to be cruel. Moore restrains them with admirable prudence. He has hitherto been very unpopular in the neighbourhood; but, mark my words, the tide of opinion will now turn in his favour."


Mr. Helstone was about to add to this speech some half-jesting, half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar on the subject of her rumoured partiality for her talented tenant, when a ring at the door, announcing another caller, checked his raillery; and as that other caller appeared in the form of a white-haired elderly gentleman, with a rather truculent countenance and disdainful eye--in short, our old acquaintance, and the rector's old enemy, Mr. Yorke--the priest and Levite seized his hat, and with the briefest of adieus to Miss Keeldar and the sternest of nods to her guest took an abrupt leave.

Mr. Helstone was about to add some half-jesting warning to Miss Keeldar about her rumoured partiality for her tenant, when a ring at the door checked him. As the second caller was the rector's old enemy, Mr. Yorke, Mr. Helstone seized his hat, and with a brief adieu took an abrupt leave.


Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood, and in no measured terms did he express his opinion on the transaction of the night. Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob leaders, each and all came in for a share of his invectives; but he reserved his strongest epithets--and real racy Yorkshire Doric adjectives they were--for the benefit of the fighting parsons, the "sanguinary, demoniac" rector and curate. According to him, the cup of ecclesiastical guilt was now full indeed.

Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood. Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob leaders, all came in for a share of invective; but he reserved his strongest terms - and real racy Yorkshire adjectives they were - for the fighting parsons, the rector and curate.


"The church," he said, "was in a bonny pickle now. It was time it came down when parsons took to swaggering amang soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder, taking the lives of far honester men than themselves."

"The church," he said, "is in a bonny pickle, when parsons take to swaggering among soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder."


"What would Moore have done if nobody had helped him?" asked Shirley.


"Drunk as he'd brewed, eaten as he'd baked."


"Which means you would have left him by himself to face that mob. Good! He has plenty of courage, but the greatest amount of gallantry that ever garrisoned one human breast could scarce avail against two hundred."

"He has plenty of courage, but even his gallantry alone could scarce avail against two hundred."


"He had the soldiers, those poor slaves who hire out their own blood and spill other folk's for money."

"He had the soldiers, those poor slaves who hire out their own blood and spill other folks' for money."


"You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergymen. All who wear red coats are national refuse in your eyes, and all who wear black are national swindlers. Mr. Moore, according to you, did wrong to get military aid, and he did still worse to accept of any other aid. Your way of talking amounts to this: he should have abandoned his mill and his life to the rage of a set of misguided madmen, and Mr. Helstone and every other gentleman in the parish should have looked on, and seen the building razed and its owner slaughtered, and never stirred a finger to save either."

"You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergymen. Your way of talking amounts to this: Mr. Moore should have abandoned his mill and his life to the rage of misguided madmen, and Mr. Helstone and every other gentleman should have looked on, and seen the building razed and its owner slaughtered, and never stirred a finger."


"If Moore had behaved to his men from the beginning as a master ought to behave, they never would have entertained their present feelings towards him."

"If Moore had behaved to his men from the beginning as a master ought to behave, they wouldn't have their present feelings towards him."


"Easy for you to talk," exclaimed Miss Keeldar, who was beginning to wax warm in her tenant's cause--"you, whose family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, to whose person the people have been accustomed for fifty years, who know all their ways, prejudices, and preferences--easy, indeed, for _you_ to act so as to avoid offending them. But Mr. Moore came a stranger into the district; he came here poor and friendless, with nothing but his own energies to back him, nothing but his honour, his talent, and his industry to make his way for him. A monstrous crime indeed that, under such circumstances, he could not popularize his naturally grave, quiet manners all at once; could not be jocular, and free, and cordial with a strange peasantry, as you are with your fellow-townsmen! An unpardonable transgression that when he introduced improvements he did not go about the business in quite the most politic way, did not graduate his changes as delicately as a rich capitalist might have done! For errors of this sort is he to be the victim of mob outrage? Is he to be denied even the privilege of defending himself? Are those who have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr. Helstone, say what you will of him, has such a heart) to be reviled like malefactors because they stand by him, because they venture to espouse the cause of one against two hundred?"

"Easy for you to talk," exclaimed Miss Keeldar warmly, "you, whose family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, who knows all the people's ways and prejudices - easy, indeed, for you to avoid offending them. But Mr. Moore came a stranger into the district, poor and friendless, with nothing but his own energies and talent to back him. A monstrous crime indeed that he could not become popular all at once; could not be jocular and free with strangers! Unpardonable that he did not introduce improvements as gradually as a rich capitalist might have done! For these errors is he to be the victim of mob outrage? Is he to be denied the privilege of defending himself? Are brave men to be reviled because they stand by him, and support the cause of one against two hundred?"


"Come, come now, be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at the earnestness with which Shirley multiplied her rapid questions.

"Come now, be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at Shirley's earnestness.


"Cool! Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense--to dangerous nonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke, as you know, but I thoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that cant--excuse me, but I repeat the word--all that _cant_ about soldiers and parsons is most offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational crying up of one class, whether the same be aristocrat or democrat--all howling down of another class, whether clerical or military--all exacting injustice to individuals, whether monarch or mendicant--is really sickening to me; all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds, all tyrannies disguised as liberties, I reject and wash my hands of. _You_ think you are a philanthropist; _you_ think you are an advocate of liberty; but I will tell you this--Mr. Hall, the parson of Nunnely, is a better friend both of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke, the reformer of Briarfield."

"Cool! Must I listen coolly to dangerous nonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke, but I thoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that cant about soldiers and parsons is most offensive in my ears. All irrational crying up of one class, and howling down of another class, is really sickening to me; all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds, I reject. You think you are a philanthropist; you think you are an advocate of liberty; but I will tell you this - Mr. Hall is a better friend both of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke."


From a man Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language very patiently, nor would he have endured it from some women; but he accounted Shirley both honest and pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him. Besides, he took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for we have already intimated he had Robert Moore's interest very much at heart. Moreover, if he wished to avenge himself for her severity, he knew the means lay in his power: a word, he believed, would suffice to tame and silence her, to cover her frank forehead with the rosy shadow of shame, and veil the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and lash.

From a man Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language patiently, nor would he have endured it from some women; but he thought Shirley both honest and pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him. Besides, he took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for he had Robert Moore's interest at heart. If he wished to revenge himself for her severity, he knew how: a word, he believed, would tame and silence her, would cover her with the rosy shadow of shame, and make her drop her gaze.


"What more hast thou to say?" he inquired, as she paused, rather, it appeared, to take breath than because her subject or her zeal was exhausted.

"What more hast thou to say?" he inquired.


"Say, Mr. Yorke!" was the answer, the speaker meantime walking fast from wall to wall of the oak parlour--"say? I have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid order, which I never _can_ do. I have to say that your views, and those of most extreme politicians, are such as none but men in an irresponsible position _can_ advocate; that they are purely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and never intended to be acted on. Make you Prime Minister of England to-morrow, and you would have to abandon them. You abuse Moore for defending his mill. Had you been in Moore's place you could not with honour or sense have acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone for everything he does. Mr. Helstone has his faults; he sometimes does wrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained vicar of Briarfield, you would find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes for the benefit of the parish planned and persevered in by your predecessor. I wonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves. When I hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority of the church, the dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference due to them as clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their small spite against Dissenters; when I witness their silly, narrow jealousies and assumptions; when their palaver about forms, and traditions, and superstitions is sounding in my ear; when I behold their insolent carriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich--I think the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both she and her sons appear in the utmost need of reformation. Turning away distressed from minster tower and village spire--ay, as distressed as a churchwarden who feels the exigence of white-wash and has not wherewithal to purchase lime--I recall your senseless sarcasms on the 'fat bishops,' the 'pampered parsons,' 'old mother church,' etc. I remember your strictures on all who differ from you, your sweeping condemnation of classes and individuals, without the slightest allowance made for circumstances or temptations; and then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart as to whether men exist clement, reasonable, and just enough to be entrusted with the task of reform. I don't believe _you_ are of the number."

"Say, Mr. Yorke? I have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid order, which I never can do. I believe your views, and those of most extreme politicians, are purely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and never intended to be acted on. You abuse Moore for defending his mill. Had you been in Moore's place you could not have acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone for everything he does. Mr. Helstone has his faults; he sometimes does wrong, but oftener right. If you were vicar of Briarfield, you would find it no easy task to sustain all the schemes for the benefit of the parish. I wonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves. When I hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority of the church and the deference due to them as clergymen; when I hear their spite against Dissenters; when I behold their insolent manner to the poor - I think the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and needs reforming. I remember your strictures on all who differ from you, your sweeping condemnation of classes and individuals, without the slightest allowance made for circumstance; and then, Mr. Yorke, I doubt whether men exist who are reasonable and just enough to be entrusted with the task of reform. I don't believe you are of the number."


"You have an ill opinion of me, Miss Shirley. You never told me so much of your mind before."


"I never had an opening. But I have sat on Jessy's stool by your chair in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings together, listening excitedly to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebelling against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir. I am proud to have been born in the same county and parish as yourself. Truthful, upright, independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless."

"I never had an opening. But I have sat in the back-parlour at Briarmains for evenings together, listening to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebelling against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir. I am proud to have been born in the same county as yourself. Truthful, upright, independent you are; but also you are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless."


"Not to the poor, lass, nor to the meek of the earth; only to the proud and high-minded."

"Not to the poor, lass; only to the proud and high-minded."


"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, a higher-minded man than yourself does not exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your inferiors; you are too haughty, too ambitious, too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you are all alike. Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and more considerate than either you or the rector, is still haughty, stern, and, in a public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall to be found occasionally--men of large and kind hearts, who can love their whole race, who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or more powerful than they are. Such men may have less originality, less force of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind."

"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, a higher-minded man than yourself does not exist. But you are all alike. Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster than either you or the rector, is still haughty and stern. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall - men of large hearts, who can love their whole race, who can forgive others for being richer or more powerful than they are. Such men may have less force of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind."


"And when is it to be?" said Mr. Yorke, now rising.


"Only that of Robert Grard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar of Fieldhead Hall."

"Only that of Robert Grard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, heiress of Fieldhead Hall."


Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour. But the light in her eye was not faltering; it shone steadily--yes, it burned deeply.

Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour. But the light in her eye was not faltering; it shone steadily.


"That is your revenge," she said slowly; then added, "Would it be a bad match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?"

"That is your revenge," she said slowly; then added, "Would it be a bad match, unworthy of my family?"


"My lass, Moore is a gentleman; his blood is pure and ancient as mine or thine."


"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one of us at least is a republican?"

"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride?"


Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye confessed the impeachment. Yes, he had family pride; you saw it in his whole bearing.


"Moore _is_ a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. She would not give them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment. What, Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there, visible, but untranslatable--a poem, a fervid lyric, in an unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush of feeling, no ordinary love-confession--that was obvious. It was something other, deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault, baffled, puzzled. _She_ enjoyed the moment, not _he_.

"Moore is a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. She would not give them utterance; but her look spoke much. Yorke could not read it. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush of feeling, no ordinary love-confession - that was obvious. It was something deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed, and he was baffled.


"And if Moore _is_ a gentleman, you _can_ be only a lady; therefore----"

"And if Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady-"


"Therefore there would be no inequality in our union."

"So there would be no inequality in our union."


"Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquish the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"

"Thank you for your approval. Will you give me away when I relinquish the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"


Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not divine what her look signified--whether she spoke in earnest or in jest. There were purpose and feeling, banter and scoff, playing, mingled, on her mobile lineaments.

Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not tell whether she spoke in earnest or jest.


"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.


She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not singular in your ignorance. But I suppose if Moore understands me that will do, will it not?"

She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not the only one."


"Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me; I'll neither meddle nor make with them further."

"Moore may settle his own matters; I'll not meddle with them further."


A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed magically. With a sudden darkening of the eye and austere fixing of the features she demanded, "Have you been asked to interfere? Are you questioning me as another's proxy?"

A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed. With a sudden austere darkening of the eye she demanded, "Have you been asked to interfere? Are you questioning me as another's proxy?"


"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look about him! Keep all your questions for Robert; I'll answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"

"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look about him! Keep all your questions for Robert; I'll answer no more. Good-day, lassie!"


The day being fine, or at least fair--for soft clouds curtained the sun, and a dim but not chill or waterish haze slept blue on the hills--Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her callers, had persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet and summer shawl, and to take a walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.

While Shirley was engaged with her callers, Caroline had persuaded Mrs. Pryor to put on her shawl, and take a walk with her up towards the end of the Hollow.


Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course, struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting with gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when you had wandered half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep solitude--found it in the shade of unmolested trees, received it in the singing of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no trodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested that foot of man seldom pressed them; the abounding wild roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan's harem. Here you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized in pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type of some starlit spot in space.

Here the opposing sides of the glen, clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran the mill-stream, struggling with many stones and tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Half a mile from the mill, you found deep solitude. The wood flowers were fresh underfoot: wild roses bloomed abundantly. The sweet azure of blue-bells and pearl-white blossoms spangled the grass.


Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She ever shunned high-roads, and sought byways and lonely lanes. One companion she preferred to total solitude, for in solitude she was nervous; a vague fear of annoying encounters broke the enjoyment of quite lonely rambles. But she feared nothing with Caroline. When once she got away from human habitations, and entered the still demesne of nature accompanied by this one youthful friend, a propitious change seemed to steal over her mind and beam in her countenance. When with Caroline--and Caroline only--her heart, you would have said, shook off a burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spirits too escaped from a restraint. With her she was cheerful; with her, at times, she was tender; to her she would impart her knowledge, reveal glimpses of her experience, give her opportunities for guessing what life she had lived, what cultivation her mind had received, of what calibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings were vulnerable.

Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She shunned high-roads, and sought lonely lanes. In solitude she was nervous; but she feared nothing with Caroline. When once she got away from human habitations, and entered the still demesne of nature with her young friend, a change seemed to come over her. When with Caroline, her heart, you would have said, shook off a burden, her brow put aside a veil. With her she was cheerful, even tender; to her she would reveal glimpses of her experience and learning, give her opportunities for guessing what life she had lived, and where her feelings were vulnerable.


To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor talked to her companion about the various birds singing in the trees, discriminated their species, and said something about their habits and peculiarities. English natural history seemed familiar to her. All the wild flowers round their path were recognized by her; tiny plants springing near stones and peeping out of chinks in old walls--plants such as Caroline had scarcely noticed before--received a name and an intimation of their properties. It appeared that she had minutely studied the botany of English fields and woods. Having reached the head of the ravine, they sat down together on a ledge of gray and mossy rock jutting from the base of a steep green hill which towered above them. She looked round her, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she had once before seen it long ago. She alluded to its changes, and compared its aspect with that of other parts of England, revealing in quiet, unconscious touches of description a sense of the picturesque, an appreciation of the beautiful or commonplace, a power of comparing the wild with the cultured, the grand with the tame, that gave to her discourse a graphic charm as pleasant as it was unpretending.

Today, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor talked about the various birds singing in the trees, and described their species and habits. English natural history seemed familiar to her. She recognised all the wild flowers, even tiny plants peeping out of chinks in old walls - plants such as Caroline had scarcely noticed before. At the head of the ravine, they sat down together on a ledge of mossy rock. Mrs. Pryor looked round, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she had once seen it long ago. She described its changes, comparing it to other parts of England with a sense of the picturesque, and an appreciation of the beautiful and commonplace, that gave her discourse a charm as pleasant as it was unpretending.


The sort of reverent pleasure with which Caroline listened--so sincere, so quiet, yet so evident--stirred the elder lady's faculties to gentle animation. Rarely, probably, had she, with her chill, repellent outside, her diffident mien, and incommunicative habits, known what it was to excite in one whom she herself could love feelings of earnest affection and admiring esteem. Delightful, doubtless, was the consciousness that a young girl towards whom it seemed, judging by the moved expression of her eyes and features, her heart turned with almost a fond impulse, looked up to her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. With a somewhat more marked accent of interest than she often permitted herself to use, she said, as she bent towards her youthful companion, and put aside from her forehead a pale brown curl which had strayed from the confining comb, "I do hope this sweet air blowing from the hill will do you good, my dear Caroline. I wish I could see something more of colour in these cheeks; but perhaps you were never florid?"

The sincere pleasure with which Caroline listened animated the elder lady. With her chill, diffident manner, and incommunicative habits, she had seldom known what it was to stir affection in another. It seemed that her heart was moved with a fond impulse towards Caroline, who looked up to her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. With more marked interest than usual, she said, as she put aside from Caroline's forehead a straying curl, "I do hope this sweet breeze will do you good, my dear Caroline. I wish I could see more colour in these cheeks; but perhaps you were never florid?"


"I had red cheeks once," returned Miss Helstone, smiling. "I remember a year--two years ago--when I used to look in the glass, I saw a different face there to what I see now--rounder and rosier. But when we are young," added the girl of eighteen, "our minds are careless and our lives easy."

"I had red cheeks once," returned Miss Helstone, smiling. "A year - two years ago - when I used to look in the glass, I saw a rounder, rosier face. But when we are young," added the girl of eighteen, "our minds are careless and our lives easy."


"Do you," continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering by an effort that tyrant timidity which made it difficult for her, even under present circumstances, to attempt the scrutiny of another's heart--"do you, at your age, fret yourself with cares for the future? Believe me, you had better not. Let the morrow take thought for the things of itself."

"Do you," continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering her timidity with an effort, "do you fret over cares for the future? Believe me, you had better not. Let the morrow take care of itself."


"True, dear madam. It is not over the future I pine. The evil of the day is sometimes oppressive--too oppressive--and I long to escape it."

"True, dear madam. It is not over the future I pine. The evil of the day is sometimes oppressive, and I long to escape it."


"That is--the evil of the day--that is--your uncle perhaps is not--you find it difficult to understand--he does not appreciate----"

"The evil of the day - that is - your uncle perhaps is not - he does not appreciate-"


Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences; she could not manage to put the question whether Mr. Helstone was too harsh with his niece. But Caroline comprehended.

Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences; she could not ask whether Mr. Helstone was too harsh with his niece. But Caroline comprehended.