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Title: Agnes Grey

Author: Anne Bronte

CHAPTER ITHE PARS !AGE "ll true histories contain instruction# though, in some, the treasure may e hard to find, and when found, so trivial in $uantity, that the dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trou le of cracking the nut. %hether this e the case with my history or not, & am hardly competent to judge. & sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and entertaining to others# ut the world may judge for itself. 'hielded y my own o scurity, and y the lapse of years, and a few fictitious names, & do not fear to venture# and will candidly lay efore the pu lic what & would not disclose to the most intimate friend. (y father was a clergyman of the north of )ngland, who was deservedly respected y all who knew him# and, in his younger days, lived pretty comforta ly on the joint income of a small incum ency and a snug little property of his own. (y mother, who married him against the wishes of her friends, was a s$uire*s daughter, and a woman of spirit. &n vain it was represented to her, that if she ecame the poor parson*s wife, she must relin$uish her carriage and her lady*smaid, and all the lu+uries and elegancies of affluence# which to her were little less than the necessaries of life. " carriage and a lady*s-maid were great conveniences# ut, thank heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands to minister to her own necessities. "n elegant house and spacious grounds were

not to e despised# ut she would rather live in a cottage with ,ichard Grey than in a palace with any other man in the world. -inding arguments of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers they might marry if they pleased# ut, in so doing, his daughter would forfeit every fraction of her fortune. .e e+pected this would cool the ardour of oth# ut he was mistaken. (y father knew too well my mother*s superior worth not to e sensi le that she was a valua le fortune in herself/ and if she would ut consent to em ellish his hum le hearth he should e happy to take her on any terms# while she, on her part, would rather la our with her own hands than e divided from the man she loved, whose happiness it would e her joy to make, and who was already one with her in heart and soul. 'o her fortune went to swell the purse of a wiser sister, who had married a rich na o # and she, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew her, went to ury herself in the homely village parsonage among the hills of ---. "nd yet, in spite of all this, and in spite of my mother*s high spirit and my father*s whims, & elieve you might search all )ngland through, and fail to find a happier couple. 0f si+ children, my sister (ary and myself were the only two that survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. &, eing the younger y five or si+ years, was always regarded as the child, and the pet of the family/ father, mother, and sister, all com ined to spoil me1not y foolish indulgence, to render me fractious and ungoverna le, ut y ceaseless kindness, to make me too helpless and dependent1too unfit for uffeting with the cares and turmoils of life. (ary and & were rought up in the strictest seclusion. (y mother, eing at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment, took the whole charge of our education on herself, with the e+ception of !atin1which my father undertook to teach us1so that we never even went to school# and, as there was no society in the neigh ourhood, our only intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea-party, now and then, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity 2just to avoid eing stigmati3ed as too proud to consort with our neigh ours4, and an annual visit to our paternal grandfather*s# where himself, our kind grandmamma, a maiden aunt, and two or three elderly ladies and gentlemen, were the only persons we ever saw. 'ometimes our mother would amuse us with stories and anecdotes of her younger days, which, while they entertained us ama3ingly, fre$uently awoke1in me, at least1a secret wish to see a little more of the world. & thought she must have een very happy/ ut she never seemed to regret past times. (y father, however, whose temper was neither tran$uil nor cheerful y nature, often unduly ve+ed himself with thinking of the sacrifices his dear wife had made for him# and trou led his head with revolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune, for her sake and ours. &n vain my mother assured him she was $uite satisfied# and if he would ut lay y a little for the children, we should all have plenty, oth for time present and to come/ ut saving was not my father*s forte. .e would not run in de t 2at least, my mother took good care he should not4, ut while he had money he must spend it/ he liked to

see his house comforta le, and his wife and daughters well clothed, and well attended# and esides, he was charita ly disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his means/ or, as some might think, eyond them. "t length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a means of dou ling his private property at one stroke# and further increasing it, hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of enterprising spirit and undou ted talent, who was somewhat straitened in his mercantile pursuits for want of capital# ut generously proposed to give my father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust him with what he could spare# and he thought he might safely promise that whatever sum the latter chose to put into his hands, it should ring him in cent. per cent. The small patrimony was speedily sold, and the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the friendly merchant# who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for his voyage. (y father was delighted, so were we all, with our rightening prospects. -or the present, it is true, we were reduced to the narrow income of the curacy# ut my father seemed to think there was no necessity for scrupulously restricting our e+penditure to that# so, with a standing ill at (r. 5ackson*s, another at 'mith*s, and a third at .o son*s, we got along even more comforta ly than efore/ though my mother affirmed we had etter keep within ounds, for our prospects of wealth were ut precarious, after all# and if my father would only trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself stinted/ ut he, for once, was incorrigi le. %hat happy hours (ary and & have passed while sitting at our work y the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the weeping irch 2the only considera le tree in the garden4, talking of future happiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and see, and possess# with no firmer foundation for our goodly superstructure than the riches that were e+pected to flow in upon us from the success of the worthy merchant*s speculations. 0ur father was nearly as ad as ourselves# only that he affected not to e so much in earnest/ e+pressing his right hopes and sanguine e+pectations in jests and playful sallies, that always struck me as eing e+ceedingly witty and pleasant. 0ur mother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and happy/ ut still she feared he was setting his heart too much upon the matter# and once & heard her whisper as she left the room, 6God grant he e not disappointed7 & know not how he would ear it.* 8isappointed he was# and itterly, too. &t came like a thunder-clap on us all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had een wrecked, and gone to the ottom with all its stores, together with several of the crew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. & was grieved for him# & was grieved for the overthrow of all our air- uilt castles/ ut, with the elasticity of youth, & soon recovered the shook. Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an ine+perienced girl like me. &ndeed, to say the truth, there was something e+hilarating in the idea of eing driven to straits, and thrown upon our own resources. & only wished papa, mamma, and (ary were all of the same mind as myself# and then, instead of

lamenting past calamities we might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them# and the greater the difficulties, the harder our present privations, the greater should e our cheerfulness to endure the latter, and our vigour to contend against the former. (ary did not lament, ut she rooded continually over the misfortune, and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of mine could rouse her. & could not possi ly ring her to regard the matter on its right side as & did/ and indeed & was so fearful of eing charged with childish frivolity, or stupid insensi ility, that & carefully kept most of my right ideas and cheering notions to myself# well knowing they could not e appreciated. (y mother thought only of consoling my father, and paying our de ts and retrenching our e+penditure y every availa le means# ut my father was completely overwhelmed y the calamity/ health, strength, and spirits sank eneath the low, and he never wholly recovered them. &n vain my mother strove to cheer him, y appealing to his piety, to his courage, to his affection for herself and us. That very affection was his greatest torment/ it was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to increase his fortune1it was our interest that had lent such rightness to his hopes, and that imparted such itterness to his present distress. .e now tormented himself with remorse at having neglected my mother*s advice# which would at least have saved him from the additional urden of de t1he vainly reproached himself for having rought her from the dignity, the ease, the lu+ury of her former station to toil with him through the cares and toils of poverty. &t was gall and wormwood to his soul to see that splendid, highly-accomplished woman, once so courted and admired, transformed into an active managing housewife, with hands and head continually occupied with household la ours and household economy. The very willingness with which she performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which she ore her reverses, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the smallest lame to him, were all perverted y this ingenious self-tormentor into further aggravations of his sufferings. "nd thus the mind preyed upon the ody, and disordered the system of the nerves, and they in turn increased the trou les of the mind, till y action and reaction his health was seriously impaired# and not one of us could convince him that the aspect of our affairs was not half so gloomy, so utterly hopeless, as his mor id imagination represented it to e. The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout, well-fed pony1the old favourite that we had fully determined should end its days in peace, and never pass from our hands# the little coach-house and sta le were let# the servant oy, and the more efficient 2 eing the more e+pensive4 of the two maidservants, were dismissed. 0ur clothes were mended, turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency# our food, always plain, was now simplified to an unprecedented degree1e+cept my father*s favourite dishes# our coals and candles were painfully economi3ed1the pair of candles reduced to one, and that most sparingly used# the coals carefully hus anded in the half-empty grate/ especially when my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to ed

through illness1then we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping the perishing em ers together from time to time, and occasionally adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to keep them alive. "s for our carpets, they in time were worn thread are, and patched and darned even to a greater e+tent than our garments. To save the e+pense of a gardener, (ary and & undertook to keep the garden in order# and all the cooking and household work that could not easily e managed y one servant-girl, was done y my mother and sister, with a little occasional help from me/ only a little, ecause, though a woman in my own estimation, & was still a child in theirs# and my mother, like most active, managing women, was not gifted with very active daughters/ for this reason1that eing so clever and diligent herself, she was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, ut, on the contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as for num er one# and whatever was the usiness in hand, she was apt to think that no one could do it so well as herself/ so that whenever & offered to assist her, & received such an answer as169o, love, you cannot indeed1there*s nothing here you can do. Go and help your sister, or get her to take a walk with you1tell her she must not sit so much, and stay so constantly in the house as she does1she may well look thin and dejected.* 6(ary, mamma says &*m to help you# or get you to take a walk with me# she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit so constantly in the house.* 6.elp me you cannot, "gnes# and & cannot go out with you1& have far too much to do.* 6Then let me help you.* 6You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise your music, or play with the kitten.* There was always plenty of sewing on hand# ut & had not een taught to cut out a single garment, and e+cept plain hemming and seaming, there was little & could do, even in that line# for they oth asserted that it was far easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me/ and esides, they liked etter to see me prosecuting my studies, or amusing myself1it was time enough for me to sit ending over my work, like a grave matron, when my favourite little pussy was ecome a steady old cat. :nder such circumstances, although & was not many degrees more useful than the kitten, my idleness was not entirely without e+cuse. Through all our trou les, & never ut once heard my mother complain of our want of money. "s summer was coming on she o served to (ary and me, 6%hat a desira le thing it would e for your papa to spend a few weeks at a wateringplace. & am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene would e of incalcula le service to him. But then, you see, there*s no money,* she added, with a sigh. %e oth wished e+ceedingly that the thing might e done, and lamented greatly that it could not. 6%ell, well7* said she, 6it*s no use complaining. Possi ly something might e done to further the project after all. (ary, you are a eautiful drawer. %hat do you say to doing a few more pictures in your est style, and getting them framed, with the water-coloured drawings you have

already done, and trying to dispose of them to some li eral picture-dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits;* 6(amma, & should e delighted if you think they could e sold# and for anything worth while.* 6&t*s worth while trying, however, my dear/ do you procure the drawings, and &*ll endeavour to find a purchaser.* 6& wish & could do something,* said &. 6You, "gnes7 well, who knows; You draw pretty well, too/ if you choose some simple piece for your su ject, & daresay you will e a le to produce something we shall all e proud to e+hi it.* 6But & have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had long, only & did not like to mention it.* 6&ndeed7 pray tell us what it is.* 6& should like to e a governess.* (y mother uttered an e+clamation of surprise, and laughed. (y sister dropped her work in astonishment, e+claiming, 6You a governess, "gnes7 %hat can you e dreaming of;* 6%ell7 & don*t see anything so very e+traordinary in it. & do not pretend to e a le to instruct great girls# ut surely & could teach little ones/ and & should like it so much/ & am so fond of children. 8o let me, mamma7* 6But, my love, you have not learned to take care of yourself yet/ and young children re$uire more judgment and e+perience to manage than elder ones.* 6But, mamma, & am a ove eighteen, and $uite a le to take care of myself, and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence & possess, ecause & have never een tried.* 60nly think,* said (ary, 6what would you do in a house full of strangers, without me or mamma to speak and act for you1with a parcel of children, esides yourself, to attend to# and no one to look to for advice; You would not even know what clothes to put on.* 6You think, ecause & always do as you id me, & have no judgment of my own/ ut only try me1that is all & ask1and you shall see what & can do.* "t that moment my father entered and the su ject of our discussion was e+plained to him. 6%hat, my little "gnes a governess7* cried he, and, in spite of his dejection, he laughed at the idea. 6Yes, papa, don*t you say anything against it/ & should like it so much# and & am sure & could manage delightfully.* 6But, my darling, we could not spare you.* "nd a tear glistened in his eye as he added169o, no7 afflicted as we are, surely we are not rought to that pass yet.*

60h, no7* said my mother. 6There is no necessity whatever for such a step# it is merely a whim of her own. 'o you must hold your tongue, you naughty girl# for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very well we cannot part with you.* & was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones# ut still & did not wholly relin$uish my darling scheme. (ary got her drawing materials, and steadily set to work. & got mine too# ut while & drew, & thought of other things. .ow delightful it would e to e a governess7 To go out into the world# to enter upon a new life# to act for myself# to e+ercise my unused faculties# to try my unknown powers# to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help my father, mother, and sister, esides e+onerating them from the provision of my food and clothing# to show papa what his little "gnes could do# to convince mamma and (ary that & was not $uite the helpless, thoughtless eing they supposed. "nd then, how charming to e entrusted with the care and education of children7 %hatever others said, & felt & was fully competent to the task/ the clear remem rance of my own thoughts in early childhood would e a surer guide than the instructions of the most mature adviser. & had ut to turn from my little pupils to myself at their age, and & should know, at once, how to win their confidence and affections/ how to waken the contrition of the erring# how to em olden the timid and console the afflicted# how to make <irtue practica le, &nstruction desira le, and ,eligion lovely and comprehensi le. 8elightful task7 To teach the young idea how to shoot7

To tr"in the ten#er $l"nts, "n# %"tch their bu#s un&ol#ing #"y by #"y'
&nfluenced y so many inducements, & determined still to persevere# though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my father*s feelings, prevented me from resuming the su ject for several days. "t length, again, & mentioned it to my mother in private# and, with some difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. (y father*s reluctant consent was ne+t o tained, and then, though (ary still sighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother egan to look out for a situation for me. 'he wrote to my father*s relations, and consulted the newspaper advertisements1her own relations she had long dropped all communication with/ a formal interchange of occasional letters was all she had ever had since her marriage, and she would not at any time have applied to them in a case of this nature. But so long and so entire had een my parents* seclusion from the world, that many weeks elapsed efore a suita le situation could e procured. "t last, to my great joy, it was decreed that & should take charge of the young family of a certain (rs. Bloomfield# whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had known in her youth, and asserted to e a very nice woman. .er hus and was a retired tradesman, who had reali3ed a very comforta le fortune# ut could not e prevailed upon to give a greater salary than twenty-five pounds

to the instructress of his children. &, however, was glad to accept this, rather than refuse the situation1which my parents were inclined to think the etter plan. But some weeks more were yet to e devoted to preparation. .ow long, how tedious those weeks appeared to me7 Yet they were happy ones in the main1 full of right hopes and ardent e+pectations. %ith what peculiar pleasure & assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, su se$uently, the packing of my trunks7 But there was a feeling of itterness mingling with the latter occupation too# and when it was done1when all was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached1a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. (y dear friends looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that & could scarcely keep my eyes from overflowing/ ut & still affected to e gay. & had taken my last ram le with (ary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and round the house# & had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last time1the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands/ & had given a farewell stroke to all their silky acks as they crowded in my lap. & had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the pair of snow-white fantails# & had played my last tune on the old familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa/ not the last, & hoped, ut the last for what appeared to me a very long time. "nd, perhaps, when & did these things again it would e with different feelings/ circumstances might e changed, and this house might never e my settled home again. (y dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly e changed/ she was already growing a fine cat# and when & returned, even for a hasty visit at =hristmas, would, most likely, have forgotten oth her playmate and her merry pranks. & had romped with her for the last time# and when & stroked her soft right fur, while she lay purring herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a feeling of sadness & could not easily disguise. Then at ed-time, when & retired with (ary to our $uiet little cham er, where already my drawers were cleared out and my share of the ookcase was empty1and where, hereafter, she would have to sleep alone, in dreary solitude, as she e+pressed it1my heart sank more than ever/ & felt as if & had een selfish and wrong to persist in leaving her# and when & knelt once more eside our little ed, & prayed for a lessing on her and on my parents more fervently than ever & had done efore. To conceal my emotion, & uried my face in my hands, and they were presently athed in tears. & perceived, on rising, that she had een crying too/ ut neither of us spoke# and in silence we etook ourselves to our repose, creeping more closely together from the consciousness that we were to part so soon. But the morning rought a renewal of hope and spirits. & was to depart early# that the conveyance which took me 2a gig, hired from (r. 'mith, the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village4 might return the same day. & rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty reakfast, received the fond em races of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the cat1to the great scandal of 'ally, the maid1 shook hands with her, mounted the gig, drew my veil over my face, and then, ut not till then, urst into a flood of tears. The gig rolled on# & looked ack# my dear mother and sister were still standing at the door, looking after me, and waving

their adieu+. & returned their salute, and prayed God to less them from my heart/ we descended the hill, and & could see them no more. 6&t*s a coldish mornin* for you, (iss "gnes,* o served 'mith# 6and a darksome *un too# ut we*s happen get to yon spot afore there come much rain to signify.* 6Yes, & hope so,* replied &, as calmly as & could. 6&t*s comed a good sup last night too.* 6Yes.* 6But this cold wind will happen keep it off.* 6Perhaps it will.* .ere ended our collo$uy. %e crossed the valley, and egan to ascend the opposite hill. "s we were toiling up, & looked ack again# there was the village spire, and the old grey parsonage eyond it, asking in a slanting eam of sunshine1it was ut a sickly ray, ut the village and surrounding hills were all in som re shade, and & hailed the wandering eam as a propitious omen to my home. %ith clasped hands & fervently implored a lessing on its inha itants, and hastily turned away# for & saw the sunshine was departing# and & carefully avoided another glance, lest & should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.

CHAPTER II(IRST )ESS !S I! THE ART ( I!STR*CTI ! "s we drove along, my spirits revived again, and & turned, with pleasure, to the contemplation of the new life upon which & was entering. But though it was not far past the middle of 'eptem er, the heavy clouds and strong north-easterly wind com ined to render the day e+tremely cold and dreary# and the journey seemed a very long one, for, as 'mith o served, the roads were 6very heavy*# and certainly, his horse was very heavy too/ it crawled up the hills, and crept down them, and only condescended to shake its sides in a trot where the road was at a dead level or a very gentle slope, which was rarely the case in those rugged regions# so that it was nearly one o*clock efore we reached the place of our destination. Yet, after all, when we entered the lofty iron gateway, when we drove softly up the smooth, well-rolled carriage-road, with the green lawn on each side, studded with young trees, and approached the new ut stately mansion of %ellwood, rising a ove its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart failed me, and & wished it were a mile or two farther off. -or the first time in my life & must stand alone/ there was no retreating now. & must enter that house, and introduce myself among its strange inha itants. But how was it to e done; True, & was near nineteen# ut, thanks to my retired life and the protecting care of my mother and sister, & well knew that many a girl of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly address, and greater ease and self-possession, than & was. Yet, if (rs. Bloomfield were a kind, motherly woman, & might do very well, after all# and the children, of course, & should soon e at ease with them1and (r. Bloomfield, & hoped, & should have ut little to do with.

6Be calm, e calm, whatever happens,* & said within myself# and truly & kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my nerves and stifling the re ellious flutter of my heart, that when & was admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of (rs. Bloomfield, & almost forgot to answer her polite salutation# and it afterwards struck me, that the little & did say was spoken in the tone of one half-dead or half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in her manner, as & discovered when & had time to reflect. 'he was a tall, spare, stately woman, with thick lack hair, cold grey eyes, and e+tremely sallow comple+ion. %ith due politeness, however, she showed me my edroom, and left me there to take a little refreshment. & was somewhat dismayed at my appearance on looking in the glass/ the cold wind had swelled and reddened my hands, uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of a pale purple# add to this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock splashed with mud, my feet clad in stout new oots, and as the trunks were not rought up, there was no remedy# so having smoothed my hair as well as & could, and repeatedly twitched my o durate collar, & proceeded to clomp down the two flights of stairs, philosophi3ing as & went# and with some difficulty found my way into the room where (rs. Bloomfield awaited me. 'he led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had een laid out. 'ome eefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set efore me# and while & dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me 2as & thought4 and endeavouring to sustain something like a conversation1consisting chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks, e+pressed with frigid formality/ ut this might e more my fault than hers, for & really could not converse. &n fact, my attention was almost wholly a sor ed in my dinner/ not from ravenous appetite, ut from distress at the toughness of the eefsteaks, and the num ness of my hands, almost palsied y their five-hours* e+posure to the itter wind. & would gladly have eaten the potatoes and let the meat alone, ut having got a large piece of the latter on to my plate, & could not e so impolite as to leave it# so, after many awkward and unsuccessful attempts to cut it with the knife, or tear it with the fork, or pull it asunder etween them, sensi le that the awful lady was a spectator to the whole transaction, & at last desperately grasped the knife and fork in my fists, like a child of two years old, and fell to work with all the little strength & possessed. But this needed some apology1with a fee le attempt at a laugh, & said, 6(y hands are so enum ed with the cold that & can scarcely handle my knife and fork.* 6& daresay you would find it cold,* replied she with a cool, immuta le gravity that did not serve to reassure me. %hen the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room again, where she rang and sent for the children. 6You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,* said she, 6for & have had so little time to attend to their education myself, and we have thought them too young for a governess till now# ut & think they are clever children, and

very apt to learn, especially the little oy# he is, & think, the flower of the flock1a generous, no le-spirited oy, one to e led, ut not driven, and remarka le for always speaking the truth. .e seems to scorn deception* 2this was good news4. 6.is sister (ary "nn will re$uire watching,* continued she, 6 ut she is a very good girl upon the whole# though & wish her to e kept out of the nursery as much as possi le, as she is now almost si+ years old, and might ac$uire ad ha its from the nurses. & have ordered her cri to e placed in your room, and if you will e so kind as to overlook her washing and dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she need have nothing further to do with the nursery maid.* & replied & was $uite willing to do so# and at that moment my young pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. (aster Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown oy of seven, with a somewhat wiry frame, fla+en hair, lue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair comple+ion. (ary "nn was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her mother, ut with a round full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The second sister was -anny, a very pretty little girl# (rs. Bloomfield assured me she was a remarka ly gentle child, and re$uired encouragement/ she had not learned anything yet# ut in a few days, she would e four years old, and then she might take her first lesson in the alpha et, and e promoted to the schoolroom. The remaining one was .arriet, a little road, fat, merry, playful thing of scarcely two, that & coveted more than all the rest1 ut with her & had nothing to do. & talked to my little pupils as well as & could, and tried to render myself agreea le# ut with little success & fear, for their mother*s presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were remarka ly free from shyness. They seemed old, lively children, and & hoped & should soon e on friendly terms with them1the little oy especially, of whom & had heard such a favoura le character from his mamma. &n (ary "nn there was a certain affected simper, and a craving for notice, that & was sorry to o serve. But her rother claimed all my attention to himself# he stood olt upright etween me and the fire, with his hands ehind his ack, talking away like an orator, occasionally interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his sisters when they made too much noise. 60h, Tom, what a darling you are7* e+claimed his mother. 6=ome and kiss dear mamma# and then won*t you show (iss Grey your schoolroom, and your nice new ooks;* 6& won*t kiss you, mamma# ut & will show (iss Grey my schoolroom, and my new ooks.* 6"nd my schoolroom, and my new ooks, Tom,* said (ary "nn. 6They*re mine too.* 6They*re mine,* replied he decisively. 6=ome along, (iss Grey1&*ll escort you.* %hen the room and ooks had een shown, with some ickerings etween the rother and sister that & did my utmost to appease or mitigate, (ary "nn

rought me her doll, and egan to e very lo$uacious on the su ject of its fine clothes, its ed, its chest of drawers, and other appurtenances# ut Tom told her to hold her clamour, that (iss Grey might see his rocking-horse, which, with a most important ustle, he dragged forth from its corner into the middle of the room, loudly calling on me to attend to it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the reins, he mounted, and made me stand for ten minutes, watching how manfully he used his whip and spurs. (eantime, however, & admired (ary "nn*s pretty doll, and all its possessions# and then told (aster Tom he was a capital rider, ut & hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so much when he rode a real pony. 60h, yes, & will7* said he, laying on with redou led ardour. 6&*ll cut into him like smoke7 )eh7 my word7 ut he shall sweat for it.* This was very shocking# ut & hoped in time to e a le to work a reformation. 69ow you must put on your onnet and shawl,* said the little hero, 6and &*ll show you my garden.* 6"nd mine,* said (ary "nn. Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture# she uttered a loud, shrill scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him. 6'urely, Tom, you would not strike your sister7 & hope & shall never see you do that.* 6You will sometimes/ &*m o liged to do it now and then to keep her in order.* 6But it is not your usiness to keep her in order, you know1that is for1* 6%ell, now go and put on your onnet.* 6& don*t know1it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to rain#1and you know & have had a long drive.* 69o matter1you must come# & shall allow of no e+cuses,* replied the conse$uential little gentleman. "nd, as it was the first day of our ac$uaintance, & thought & might as well indulge him. &t was too cold for (ary "nn to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great relief of her rother, who liked to have me all to himself. The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out# esides several splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in loom/ ut my companion would not give me time to e+amine them/ & must go with him, across the wet grass, to a remote se$uestered corner, the most important place in the grounds, ecause it contained his garden. There were two round eds, stocked with a variety of plants. &n one there was a pretty little rose-tree. & paused to admire its lovely lossoms. 60h, never mind that7* said he, contemptuously. 6That*s only (ary "nn*s garden# look, this is mine.* "fter & had o served every flower, and listened to a dis$uisition on every plant, & was permitted to depart# ut first, with great pomp, he plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a prodigious favour. &

o served, on the grass a out his garden, certain apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were. 6Traps for irds.* 6%hy do you catch them;* 6Papa says they do harm.* 6"nd what do you do with them when you catch them;* 68ifferent things. 'ometimes & give them to the cat# sometimes & cut them in pieces with my penknife# ut the ne+t, & mean to roast alive.*

+An# %hy #o you ,e"n to #o such " horrible thing-.

6-or two reasons/ first, to see how long it will live1and then, to see what it will taste like.* 6But don*t you know it is e+tremely wicked to do such things; ,emem er, the irds can feel as well as you# and think, how would you like it yourself;* 60h, that*s nothing7 &*m not a ird, and & can*t feel what & do to them.* 6But you will have to feel it some time, Tom/ you have heard where wicked people go to when they die# and if you don*t leave off torturing innocent irds, remem er, you will have to go there, and suffer just what you have made them suffer.* 60h, pooh7 & shan*t. Papa knows how & treat them, and he never lames me for it/ he says it is just what he used to do when he was a oy. !ast summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything# e+cept that they were nasty things, and & must not let them soil my trousers/ end :ncle ,o son was there too, and he laughed, and said & was a fine oy.*

+But %h"t %oul# your ,",," s"y-.

60h, she doesn*t care7 she says it*s a pity to kill the pretty singing irds, ut the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, & may do what & like with. 'o now, (iss Grey, you see it is not wicked.* 6& still think it is, Tom# and perhaps your papa and mamma would think so too, if they thought much a out it. .owever,* & internally added, 6they may say what they please, ut & am determined you shall do nothing of the kind, as long as & have power to prevent it.* .e ne+t took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps/ one of which, to his great joy, contained a dead weasel# and then into the sta le to see, not the fine carriage-horses, ut a little rough colt, which he informed me had een red on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was properly trained. & tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to all his chatter as complacently as & could# for & thought if he had any affections at all, & would endeavour to win them# and then, in time, & might e

a le to show him the error of his ways/ ut & looked in vain for that generous, no le spirit his mother talked of# though & could see he was not without a certain degree of $uickness and penetration, when he chose to e+ert it. %hen we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. (aster Tom told me that, as papa was from home, he and & and (ary "nn were to have tea with mamma, for a treat# for, on such occasions, she always dined at luncheon-time with them, instead of at si+ o*clock. 'oon after tea, (ary "nn went to ed, ut Tom favoured us with his company and conversation till eight. "fter he was gone, (rs. Bloomfield further enlightened me on the su ject of her children*s dispositions and ac$uirements, and on what they were to learn, and how they were to e managed, and cautioned me to mention their defects to no one ut herself. (y mother had warned me efore to mention them as little as possi le to her, for people did not like to e told of their children*s faults, and so & concluded & was to keep silence on them altogether. " out half-past nine, (rs. Bloomfield invited me to partake of a frugal supper of cold meat and read. & was glad when that was over, and she took her edroom candlestick and retired to rest# for though & wished to e pleased with her, her company was e+tremely irksome to me# and & could not help feeling that she was cold, grave, and for idding1the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron my hopes had depicted her to e.

CHAPTER IIIA (E/ 0 RE )ESS !S & rose ne+t morning with a feeling of hopeful e+hilaration, in spite of the disappointments already e+perienced# ut & found the dressing of (ary "nn was no light matter, as her a undant hair was to e smeared with pomade, plaited in three long tails, and tied with ows of ri on/ a task my unaccustomed fingers found great difficulty in performing. 'he told me her nurse could do it in half the time, and, y keeping up a constant fidget of impatience, contrived to render me still longer. %hen all was done, we went into the schoolroom, where & met my other pupil, and chatted with the two till it was time to go down to reakfast. That meal eing concluded, and a few civil words having een e+changed with (rs. Bloomfield, we repaired to the schoolroom again, and commenced the usiness of the day. & found my pupils very ackward, indeed# ut Tom, though averse to every species of mental e+ertion, was not without a ilities. (ary "nn could scarcely read a word, and was so careless and inattentive that & could hardly get on with her at all. .owever, y dint of great la our and patience, & managed to get something done in the course of the morning, and then accompanied my young charge out into the garden and adjacent grounds, for a little recreation efore dinner. There we got along tolera ly together, e+cept that & found they had no notion of going with me/ & must go with them, wherever they chose to lead me. & must run, walk, or stand, e+actly as it suited their fancy. This, & thought, was reversing the order of things# and & found it dou ly disagreea le, as on this as well as su se$uent occasions, they seemed to prefer the dirtiest places and the most dismal occupations. But there was no remedy# either & must follow them, or keep entirely apart from them, and thus appear neglectful of my charge.

To-day, they manifested a particular attachment to a well at the ottom of the lawn, where they persisted in da ling with sticks and pe les for a ove half an hour. & was in constant fear that their mother would see them from the window, and lame me for allowing them thus to draggle their clothes and wet their feet and hands, instead of taking e+ercise# ut no arguments, commands, or entreaties could draw them away. &f she did not see them, some one else did1a gentleman on horse ack had entered the gate and was proceeding up the road# at the distance of a few paces from us he paused, and calling to the children in a waspish penetrating tone, ade them 6keep out of that water.* 6(iss Grey,* said he, 62& suppose it is (iss Grey4, & am surprised that you should allow them to dirty their clothes in that manner7 8on*t you see how (iss Bloomfield has soiled her frock; and that (aster Bloomfield*s socks are $uite wet; and oth of them without gloves; 8ear, dear7 !et me re$uest that in future you will keep them decent at least7* so saying, he turned away, and continued his ride up to the house. This was (r. Bloomfield. & was surprised that he should nominate his children (aster and (iss Bloomfield# and still more so, that he should speak so uncivilly to me, their governess, and a perfect stranger to himself. Presently the ell rang to summon us in. & dined with the children at one, while he and his lady took their luncheon at the same ta le. .is conduct there did not greatly raise him in my estimation. .e was a man of ordinary stature1rather elow than a ove1 and rather thin than stout, apparently etween thirty and forty years of age/ he had a large mouth, pale, dingy comple+ion, milky lue eyes, and hair the colour of a hempen cord. There was a roast leg of mutton efore him/ he helped (rs. Bloomfield, the children, and me, desiring me to cut up the children*s meat# then, after twisting a out the mutton in various directions, and eyeing it from different points, he pronounced it not fit to e eaten, and called for the cold eef. 6%hat is the matter with the mutton, my dear;* asked his mate. 6&t is $uite overdone. 8on*t you taste, (rs. Bloomfield, that all the goodness is roasted out of it; "nd can*t you see that all that nice, red gravy is completely dried away;* 6%ell, & think the eef will suit you.* The eef was set efore him, and he egan to carve, ut with the most rueful e+pressions of discontent. 6%hat is the matter with the eef, (r. Bloomfield; &*m sure & thought it was very nice.* 6"nd so it was very nice. " nicer joint could not e# ut it is $uite spoiled,* replied he, dolefully.

+Ho% so-. +Ho% so' /hy, #on.t you see ho% it is cut- 1e"r#e"r' it is 2uite shocking'.
6They must have cut it wrong in the kitchen, then, for &*m sure & carved it $uite properly here, yesterday.* 69o dou t they cut it wrong in the kitchen1the savages7 8ear1dear7 8id ever any one see such a fine piece of eef so completely ruined; But remem er that, in future, when a decent dish leaves this ta le, they shall not touch it in the kitchen. ,emem er that, (rs. Bloomfield7* 9otwithstanding the ruinous state of the eef, the gentleman managed to out himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. %hen he ne+t spoke, it was, in a less $uerulous tone, to ask what there was for dinner. 6Turkey and grouse,* was the concise reply. 6"nd what esides;* 6-ish.* 6%hat kind of fish;* 6& don*t know.* 6You don*t know;* cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and suspending his knife and fork in astonishment. 69o. & told the cook to get some fish1& did not particulari3e what.* 6%ell, that eats everything7 " lady professes to keep house, and doesn*t even know what fish is for dinner7 professes to order fish, and doesn*t specify what7* 6Perhaps, (r. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.* 9othing more was said# and & was very glad to get out of the room with my pupils# for & never felt so ashamed and uncomforta le in my life for anything that was not my own fault. &n the afternoon we applied to lessons again/ then went out again# then had tea in the schoolroom# then & dressed (ary "nn for dessert# and when she and her rother had gone down to the dining-room, & took the opportunity of eginning a letter to my dear friends at home/ ut the children came up efore & had half completed it. "t seven & had to put (ary "nn to ed# then & played with Tom till eight, when he, too, went# and & finished my letter and unpacked my clothes, which & had hitherto found no opportunity for doing, and, finally, went to ed myself. But this is a very favoura le specimen of a day*s proceedings. (y task of instruction and surveillance, instead of ecoming easier as my charges and & got etter accustomed to each other, ecame more arduous as their characters unfolded. The name of governess, & soon found, was a mere mockery as applied to me/ my pupils had no more notion of o edience than a wild, un roken colt. The ha itual fear of their father*s peevish temper, and the

dread of the punishments he was wont to inflict when irritated, kept them generally within ounds in his immediate presence. The girls, too, had some fear of their mother*s anger# and the oy might occasionally e ri ed to do as she id him y the hope of reward# ut & had no rewards to offer# and as for punishments, & was given to understand, the parents reserved that privilege to themselves# and yet they e+pected me to keep my pupils in order. 0ther children might e guided y the fear of anger and the desire of appro ation# ut neither the one nor the other had any effect upon these. (aster Tom, not content with refusing to e ruled, must needs set up as a ruler, and manifested a determination to keep, not only his sisters, ut his governess in order, y violent manual and pedal applications# and, as he was a tall, strong oy of his years, this occasioned no trifling inconvenience. " few sound o+es on the ear, on such occasions, might have settled the matter easily enough/ ut as, in that case, he might make up some story to his mother which she would e sure to elieve, as she had such unshaken faith in his veracity1 though & had already discovered it to e y no means unimpeacha le1& determined to refrain from striking him, even in self-defence# and, in his most violent moods, my only resource was to throw him on his ack and hold his hands and feet till the fren3y was somewhat a ated. To the difficulty of preventing him from doing what he ought not, was added that of forcing him to do what he ought. 0ften he would positively refuse to learn, or to repeat his lessons, or even to look at his ook. .ere, again, a good irch rod might have een servicea le# ut, as my powers were so limited, & must make the est use of what & had. "s there were no settled hours for study and play, & resolved to give my pupils a certain task, which, with moderate attention, they could perform in a short time# and till this was done, however weary & was, or however perverse they might e, nothing short of parental interference should induce me to suffer them to leave the schoolroom, even if & should sit with my chair against the door to keep them in. Patience, -irmness, and Perseverance were my only weapons# and these & resolved to use to the utmost. & determined always strictly to fulfil the threats and promises & made# and, to that end, & must e cautious to threaten and promise nothing that & could not perform. Then, & would carefully refrain from all useless irrita ility and indulgence of my own ill-temper/ when they ehaved tolera ly, & would e as kind and o liging as it was in my power to e, in order to make the widest possi le distinction etween good and ad conduct# & would reason with them, too, in the simplest and most effective manner. %hen & reproved them, or refused to gratify their wishes, after a glaring fault, it should e more in sorrow than in anger/ their little hymns and prayers & would make plain and clear to their understanding# when they said their prayers at night and asked pardon for their offences, & would remind them of the sins of the past day, solemnly, ut in perfect kindness, to avoid raising a spirit of opposition# penitential hymns should e said y the naughty, cheerful ones y the comparatively good# and every kind of instruction & would convey to them, as much as possi le, y entertaining

discourse1apparently with no other o ject than their present amusement in view. By these means & hoped in time oth to enefit the children and to gain the appro ation of their parents# and also to convince my friends at home that & was not so wanting in skill and prudence as they supposed. & knew the difficulties & had to contend with were great# ut & knew 2at least & elieved4 unremitting patience and perseverance could overcome them# and night and morning & implored 8ivine assistance to this end. But either the children were so incorrigi le, the parents so unreasona le, or myself so mistaken in my views, or so una le to carry them out, that my est intentions and most strenuous efforts seemed productive of no etter result than sport to the children, dissatisfaction to their parents, and torment to myself. The task of instruction was as arduous for the ody as the mind. & had to run after my pupils to catch them, to carry or drag them to the ta le, and often forci ly to hold them there till the lesson was done. Tom & fre$uently put into a corner, seating myself efore him in a chair, with a ook which contained the little task that must e said or read, efore he was released, in my hand. .e was not strong enough to push oth me and the chair away, so he would stand twisting his ody and face into the most grotes$ue and singular contortions1laugha le, no dou t, to an unconcerned spectator, ut not to me1and uttering loud yells and doleful outcries, intended to represent weeping ut wholly without the accompaniment of tears. & knew this was done solely for the purpose of annoying me# and, therefore, however & might inwardly trem le with impatience and irritation, & manfully strove to suppress all visi le signs of molestation, and affected to sit with calm indifference, waiting till it should please him to cease this pastime, and prepare for a run in the garden, y casting his eye on the ook and reading or repeating the few words he was re$uired to say. 'ometimes he was determined to do his writing adly# and & had to hold his hand to prevent him from purposely lotting or disfiguring the paper. -re$uently & threatened that, if he did not do etter, he should have another line/ then he would stu ornly refuse to write this line# and &, to save my word, had finally to resort to the e+pedient of holding his fingers upon the pen, and forci ly drawing his hand up and down, till, in spite of his resistance, the line was in some sort completed. Yet Tom was y no means the most unmanagea le of my pupils/ sometimes, to my great joy, he would have the sense to see that his wisest policy was to finish his tasks, and go out and amuse himself till & and his sisters came to join him# which fre$uently was not at all, for (ary "nn seldom followed his e+ample in this particular/ she apparently preferred rolling on the floor to any other amusement/ down she would drop like a leaden weight# and when &, with great difficulty, had succeeded in rooting her thence, & had still to hold her up with one arm, while with the other & held the ook from which she was to read or spell her lesson. "s the dead weight of the ig girl of si+ ecame too heavy for one arm to ear, & transferred it to the other# or, if oth were weary of the urden, & carried her into a corner, and told her she might come out when she should find the use

of her feet, and stand up/ ut she generally preferred lying there like a log till dinner or tea-time, when, as & could not deprive her of her meals, she must e li erated, and would come crawling out with a grin of triumph on her round, red face. 0ften she would stu ornly refuse to pronounce some particular word in her lesson# and now & regret the lost la our & have had in striving to con$uer her o stinacy. &f & had passed it over as a matter of no conse$uence, it would have een etter for oth parties, than vainly striving to overcome it as & did# ut & thought it my a solute duty to crush this vicious tendency in the ud/ and so it was, if & could have done it# and had my powers een less limited, & might have enforced o edience# ut, as it was, it was a trial of strength etween her and me, in which she generally came off victorious# and every victory served to encourage and strengthen her for a future contest. &n vain & argued, coa+ed, entreated, threatened, scolded# in vain & kept her in from play, or, if o liged to take her out, refused to play with her, or to speak kindly or have anything to do with her# in vain & tried to set efore her the advantages of doing as she was id, and eing loved, and kindly treated in conse$uence, and the disadvantages of persisting in her a surd perversity. 'ometimes, when she would ask me to do something for her, & would answer,16Yes, & will, (ary "nn, if you will only say that word. =ome7 you*d etter say it at once, and have no more trou le a out it.* 69o.* 6Then, of course, & can do nothing for you.* %ith me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most dreadful of punishments# ut on her they made no impression. 'ometimes, e+asperated to the utmost pitch, & would shake her violently y the shoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner# for which she punished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through my head like a knife. 'he knew & hated this, and when she had shrieked her utmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive satisfaction, e+claiming,169ow, then7 that*s for you7* and then shriek again and again, till & was forced to stop my ears. 0ften these dreadful cries would ring (rs. Bloomfield up to in$uire what was the matter; 6(ary "nn is a naughty girl, ma*am.* 6But what are these shocking screams;* 6'he is screaming in a passion.* 6& never heard such a dreadful noise7 You might e killing her. %hy is she not out with her rother;* 6& cannot get her to finish her lessons.* 6But (ary "nn must e a good girl, and finish her lessons.* This was landly spoken to the child. 6"nd & hope & shall never hear such terri le cries again7* "nd fi+ing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not e mistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. 'ometimes & would try to take the little o stinate creature y surprise, and casually ask her the word while she was thinking of something else# fre$uently she would egin to say it, and

then suddenly cheek herself, with a provoking look that seemed to say, 6"h7 &*m too sharp for you# you shan*t trick it out of me, either.* 0n another occasion, & pretended to forget the whole affair# and talked and played with her as usual, till night, when & put her to ed# then ending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just efore departing, & said, as cheerfully and kindly as efore169ow, (ary "nn, just tell me that word efore & kiss you good-night. You are a good girl now, and, of course, you will say it.* 69o, & won*t.* 6Then & can*t kiss you.* 6%ell, & don*t care.* &n vain & e+pressed my sorrow# in vain & lingered for some symptom of contrition# she really 6didn*t care,* and & left her alone, and in darkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate stu ornness. &n my childhood & could not imagine a more afflictive punishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night/ the very idea was terri le. (ore than the idea & never felt, for, happily, & never committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty# ut once & remem er, for some transgression of my sister*s, our mother thought proper to inflict it upon her/ what she felt, & cannot tell# ut my sympathetic tears and suffering for her sake & shall not soon forget. "nother trou lesome trait in (ary "nn was her incorrigi le propensity to keep running into the nursery, to play with her little sisters and the nurse. This was natural enough, ut, as it was against her mother*s e+press desire, &, of course, for ade her to do so, and did my utmost to keep her with me# ut that only increased her relish for the nursery, and the more & strove to keep her out of it, the oftener she went, and the longer she stayed, to the great dissatisfaction of (rs. Bloomfield, who, & well knew, would impute all the lame of the matter to me. "nother of my trials was the dressing in the morning/ at one time she would not e washed# at another she would not e dressed, unless she might wear some particular frock, that & knew her mother would not like her to have# at another she would scream and run away if & attempted to touch her hair. 'o that, fre$uently, when, after much trou le and toil, & had, at length, succeeded in ringing her down, the reakfast was nearly half over# and lack looks from 6mamma,* and testy o servations from 6papa,* spoken at me, if not to me, were sure to e my meed/ for few things irritated the latter so much as want of punctuality at meal times. Then, among the minor annoyances, was my ina ility to satisfy (rs. Bloomfield with her daughter*s dress# and the child*s hair 6was never fit to e seen.* 'ometimes, as a powerful reproach to me, she would perform the office of tire woman herself, and then complain itterly of the trou le it gave her. %hen little -anny came into the schoolroom, & hoped she would e mild and inoffensive, at least# ut a few days, if not a few hours, sufficed to destroy the illusion/ & found her a mischievous, intracta le little creature, given up to falsehood and deception, young as she was, and alarmingly fond of e+ercising

her two favourite weapons of offence and defence/ that of spitting in the faces of those who incurred her displeasure, and ellowing like a ull when her unreasona le desires were not gratified. "s she, generally, was pretty $uiet in her parents* presence, and they were impressed with the notion of her eing a remarka ly gentle child, her falsehoods were readily elieved, and her loud uproars led them to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my part# and when, at length, her ad disposition ecame manifest even to their prejudiced eyes, & felt that the whole was attri uted to me. 6%hat a naughty girl -anny is getting7* (rs. Bloomfield would say to her spouse. 68on*t you o serve, my dear, how she is altered since she entered the schoolroom; 'he will soon e as ad as the other two# and, & am sorry to say, they have $uite deteriorated of late.* 6You may say that,* was the answer. 6&*ve een thinking that same myself. & thought when we got them a governess they*d improve# ut, instead of that, they get worse and worse/ & don*t know how it is with their learning, ut their ha its, & know, make no sort of improvement# they get rougher, and dirtier, and more unseemly every day.* & knew this was all pointed at me# and these, and all similar innuendoes, affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would have done# for against the latter & should have een roused to speak in my own defence/ now & judged it my wisest plan to su due every resentful impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on perseveringly, doing my est# for, irksome as my situation was, & earnestly wished to retain it. & thought, if & could struggle on with unremitting firmness and integrity, the children would in time ecome more humani3ed/ every month would contri ute to make them some little wiser, and, conse$uently, more managea le# for a child of nine or ten as frantic and ungoverna le as these at si+ and seven would e a maniac. & flattered myself & was enefiting my parents and sister y my continuance here# for small as the salary was, & still was earning something, and with strict economy & could easily manage to have something to spare for them, if they would favour me y taking it. Then it was y my own will that & had got the place/ & had rought all this tri ulation on myself, and & was determined to ear it# nay, more than that, & did not even regret the step & had taken. & longed to show my friends that, even now, & was competent to undertake the charge, and a le to ac$uit myself honoura ly to the end# and if ever & felt it degrading to su mit so $uietly, or intolera le to toil so constantly, & would turn towards my home, and say within myself1 They may crush, ut they shall not su due me7 *Tis of thee that & think, not of them. " out =hristmas & was allowed to visit home# ut my holiday was only of a fortnight*s duration/ 6-or,* said (rs. Bloomfield, 6& thought, as you had seen your friends so lately, you would not care for a longer stay.* & left her to think so still/

ut she little knew how long, how wearisome those fourteen weeks of a sence had een to me# how intensely & had longed for my holidays, how greatly & was disappointed at their curtailment. Yet she was not to lame in this. & had never told her my feelings, and she could not e e+pected to divine them# & had not een with her a full term, and she was justified in not allowing me a full vacation.

CHAPTER I3THE GRA!10A00A & spare my readers the account of my delight on coming home, my happiness while there1enjoying a rief space of rest and li erty in that dear, familiar place, among the loving and the loved1and my sorrow on eing o liged to id them, once more, a long adieu. & returned, however, with una ated vigour to my work1a more arduous task than anyone can imagine, who has not felt something like the misery of eing charged with the care and direction of a set of mischievous, tur ulent re els, whom his utmost e+ertions cannot ind to their duty# while, at the same time, he is responsi le for their conduct to a higher power, who e+acts from him what cannot e achieved without the aid of the superior*s more potent authority# which, either from indolence, or the fear of ecoming unpopular with the said re ellious gang, the latter refuses to give. & can conceive few situations more harassing than that wherein, however you may long for success, however you may la our to fulfil your duty, your efforts are affled and set at nought y those eneath you, and unjustly censured and misjudged y those a ove. & have not enumerated half the ve+atious propensities of my pupils, or half the trou les resulting from my heavy responsi ilities, for fear of trespassing too much upon the reader*s patience# as, perhaps, & have already done# ut my design in writing the few last pages was not to amuse, ut to enefit those whom it might concern# he that has no interest in such matters will dou tless have skipped them over with a cursory glance, and, perhaps, a malediction against the proli+ity of the writer# ut if a parent has, therefrom, gathered any useful hint, or an unfortunate governess received there y the slightest enefit, & am well rewarded for my pains. To avoid trou le and confusion, & have taken my pupils one y one, and discussed their various $ualities# ut this can give no ade$uate idea of eing worried y the whole three together# when, as was often the case, all were determined to 6 e naughty, and to tease (iss Grey, and put her in a passion.* 'ometimes, on such occasions, the thought has suddenly occurred to me16&f they could see me now7* meaning, of course, my friends at home# and the idea of how they would pity me has made me pity myself1so greatly that & have had the utmost difficulty to restrain my tears/ ut & have restrained them, till my little tormentors were gone to dessert, or cleared off to ed 2my only prospects of deliverance4, and then, in all the liss of solitude, & have given myself up to the lu+ury of an unrestricted urst of weeping. But this was a weakness & did not often indulge/ my employments were too numerous, my leisure moments too precious, to admit of much time eing given to fruitless lamentations.

& particularly remem er one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my return in 5anuary/ the children had all come up from dinner, loudly declaring that they meant 6to e naughty#* and they had well kept their resolution, though & had talked myself hoarse, and wearied every muscle in my throat, in the vain attempt to reason them out of it. & had got Tom pinned up in a corner, whence, & told him, he should not escape till he had done his appointed task. (eantime, -anny had possessed herself of my work- ag, and was rifling its contents1and spitting into it esides. & told her to let it alone, ut to no purpose, of course. 6Burn it, -anny7* cried Tom/ and this command she hastened to o ey. & sprang to snatch it from the fire, and Tom darted to the door. 6(ary "nn, throw her desk out of the window7* cried he/ and my precious desk, containing my letters and papers, my small amount of cash, and all my valua les, was a out to e precipitated from the three-storey window. & flew to rescue it. (eanwhile Tom had left the room, and was rushing down the stairs, followed y -anny. .aving secured my desk, & ran to catch them, and (ary "nn came scampering after. "ll three escaped me, and ran out of the house into the garden, where they plunged a out in the snow, shouting and screaming in e+ultant glee. %hat must & do; &f & followed them, & should pro a ly e una le to capture one, and only drive them farther away# if & did not, how was & to get them in; "nd what would their parents think of me, if they saw or heard the children rioting, hatless, onnetless, gloveless, and ootless, in the deep soft snow; %hile & stood in this perple+ity, just without the door, trying, y grim looks and angry words, to awe them into su jection, & heard a voice ehind me, in harshly piercing tones, e+claiming,1

+0iss Grey' Is it $ossible- /h"t, in the #e4il.s n",e, c"n you be thinking "bout-.
6& can*t get them in, sir,* said &, turning round, and eholding (r. Bloomfield, with his hair on end, and his pale lue eyes olting from their sockets. 6But & insist upon their eing got in7* cried he, approaching nearer, and looking perfectly ferocious. 6Then, sir, you must call them yourself, if you please, for they won*t listen to me,* & replied, stepping ack. 6=ome in with you, you filthy rats# or &*ll horsewhip you every one7* roared he# and the children instantly o eyed. 6There, you see71they come at the first word7* 6Yes, when you speak.* 6"nd it*s very strange, that when you*ve the care of *em you*ve no etter control over *em than that719ow, there they are1gone upstairs with their nasty snowy feet7 8o go after *em and see them made decent, for heaven*s sake7* That gentleman*s mother was then staying in the house# and, as & ascended the stairs and passed the drawing-room door, & had the satisfaction of hearing the

old lady declaiming aloud to her daughter-in-law to this effect 2for & could only distinguish the most emphatic words41 6Gracious heavens71never in all my life171get their death as sure as17 8o you think, my dear, she*s a proper person; Take my word for it1* & heard no more# ut that sufficed. The senior (rs. Bloomfield had een very attentive and civil to me# and till now & had thought her a nice, kind-hearted, chatty old ody. 'he would often come to me and talk in a confidential strain# nodding and shaking her head, and gesticulating with hands and eyes, as a certain class of old ladies are won*t to do# though & never knew one that carried the peculiarity to so great an e+tent. 'he would even sympathise with me for the trou le & had with the children, and e+press at times, y half sentences, interspersed with nods and knowing winks, her sense of the injudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting my power, and neglecting to support me with her authority. 'uch a mode of testifying disappro ation was not much to my taste# and & generally refused to take it in, or understand anything more than was openly spoken# at least, & never went farther than an implied acknowledgment that, if matters were otherwise ordered my task would e a less difficult one, and & should e etter a le to guide and instruct my charge# ut now & must e dou ly cautious. .itherto, though & saw the old lady had her defects 2of which one was a proneness to proclaim her perfections4, & had always een wishful to e+cuse them, and to give her credit for all the virtues she professed, and even imagine others yet untold. >indness, which had een the food of my life through so many years, had lately een so entirely denied me, that & welcomed with grateful joy the slightest sem lance of it. 9o wonder, then, that my heart warmed to the old lady, and always gladdened at her approach and regretted her departure. But now, the few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had wholly revolutioni3ed my ideas respecting her/ now & looked upon her as hypocritical and insincere, a flatterer, and a spy upon my words and deeds. 8ou tless it would have een my interest still to meet her with the same cheerful smile and tone of respectful cordiality as efore# ut & could not, if & would/ my manner altered with my feelings, and ecame so cold and shy that she could not fail to notice it. 'he soon did notice it, and her manner altered too/ the familiar nod was changed to a stiff ow, the gracious smile gave place to a glare of Gorgon ferocity# her vivacious lo$uacity was entirely transferred from me to 6the darling oy and girls,* whom she flattered and indulged more a surdly than ever their mother had done. & confess & was somewhat trou led at this change/ & feared the conse$uences of her displeasure, and even made some efforts to recover the ground & had lost 1and with etter apparent success than & could have anticipated. "t one time, &, merely in common civility, asked after her cough# immediately her long visage rela+ed into a smile, and she favoured me with a particular history of that and her other infirmities, followed y an account of her pious resignation, delivered in the usual emphatic, declamatory style, which no writing can portray.

6But there*s one remedy for all, my dear, and that*s resignation* 2a toss of the head4, 6resignation to the will of heaven7* 2an uplifting of the hands and eyes4. 6&t has always supported me through all my trials, and always will do* 2a succession of nods4. 6But then, it isn*t every ody that can say that* 2a shake of the head4# 6 ut &*m one of the pious ones, (iss Grey7* 2a very significant nod and toss4. 6"nd, thank heaven, & always was* 2another nod4, 6and & glory in it7* 2an emphatic clasping of the hands and shaking of the head4. "nd with several te+ts of 'cripture, mis$uoted or misapplied, and religious e+clamations so redolent of the ludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of ringing in, if not in the e+pressions themselves, that & decline repeating them, she withdrew# tossing her large head in high good-humour1with herself at least1and left me hoping that, after all, she was rather weak than wicked. "t her ne+t visit to %ellwood .ouse, & went so far as to say & was glad to see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical/ the words, intended as a mark of civility, were received as a flattering compliment# her countenance rightened up, and from that moment she ecame as gracious and enign as heart could wish1in outward sem lance at least. -rom what & now saw of her, and what & heard from the children, & know that, in order to gain her cordial friendship, & had ut to utter a word of flattery at each convenient opportunity/ ut this was against my principles# and for lack of this, the capricious old dame soon deprived me of her favour again, and & elieve did me much secret injury. 'he could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me, ecause, etween that lady and herself there was a mutual dislike1chiefly shown y her in secret detractions and calumniations# y the other, in an e+cess of frigid formality in her demeanour# and no fawning flattery of the elder could thaw away the wall of ice which the younger interposed etween them. But with her son, the old lady had etter success/ he would listen to all she had to say, provided she could soothe his fretful temper, and refrain from irritating him y her own asperities# and & have reason to elieve that she considera ly strengthened his prejudice against me. 'he would tell him that & shamefully neglected the children, and even his wife did not attend to them as she ought# and that he must look after them himself, or they would all go to ruin. Thus urged, he would fre$uently give himself the trou le of watching them from the windows during their play# at times, he would follow them through the grounds, and too often came suddenly upon them while they were da ling in the for idden well, talking to the coachman in the sta les, or revelling in the filth of the farm-yard1and &, meanwhile, wearily standing, y, having previously e+hausted my energy in vain attempts to get them away. 0ften, too, he would une+pectedly pop his head into the schoolroom while the young people were at meals, and find them spilling their milk over the ta le and themselves, plunging their fingers into their own or each other*s mugs, or $uarrelling over their victuals like a set of tiger*s cu s. &f & were $uiet at the moment, & was conniving at their disorderly conduct# if 2as was fre$uently the case4 & happened to e e+alting my

voice to enforce order, & was using undue violence, and setting the girls a ad e+ample y such ungentleness of tone and language. & remem er one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could not go out# ut, y some ama3ing good fortune, they had all finished their lessons, and yet a stained from running down to tease their parents1a trick that annoyed me greatly, ut which, on rainy days, & seldom could prevent their doing# ecause, elow, they found novelty and amusement1especially when visitors were in the house# and their mother, though she id me keep them in the schoolroom, would never chide them for leaving it, or trou le herself to send them ack. But this day they appeared satisfied with, their present a ode, and what is more wonderful still, seemed disposed to play together without depending on me for amusement, and without $uarrelling with each other. Their occupation was a somewhat pu33ling one/ they were all s$uatted together on the floor y the window, over a heap of roken toys and a $uantity of irds* eggs1or rather eggshells, for the contents had luckily een a stracted. These shells they had roken up and were pounding into small fragments, to what end & could not imagine# ut so long as they were $uiet and not in positive mischief, & did not care# and, with a feeling of unusual repose, & sat y the fire, putting the finishing stitches to a frock for (ary "nn*s doll# intending, when that was done, to egin a letter to my mother. 'uddenly the door opened, and the dingy head of (r. Bloomfield looked in. 6"ll very $uiet here7 %hat are you doing;* said he. 69o harm to-day, at least,* thought &. But he was of a different opinion. "dvancing to the window, and seeing the children*s occupations, he testily e+claimed16%hat in the world are you a out;* 6%e*re grinding egg-shells, papa7* cried Tom. 6.ow dare you make such a mess, you little devils; 8on*t you see what confounded work you*re making of the carpet;* 2the carpet was a plain rown drugget4. 6(iss Grey, did you know what they were doing;* 6Yes, sir.* 6You knew it;* 6Yes.* 6You knew it7 and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on without a word of reproof7* 6& didn*t think they were doing any harm.* 6"ny harm7 %hy, look there7 5ust look at that carpet, and see1was there ever anything like it in a =hristian house efore; 9o wonder your room is not fit for a pigsty1no wonder your pupils are worse than a litter of pigs71no wonder1 oh7 & declare, it puts me $uite past my patience* and he departed, shutting the door after him with a ang that made the children laugh.

6&t puts me $uite past my patience too7* muttered &, getting up# and, sei3ing the poker, & dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred them up with unwonted energy# thus easing my irritation under pretence of mending the fire. "fter this, (r. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the schoolroom was in order# and, as the children were continually littering the floor with fragments of toys, sticks, stones, stu le, leaves, and other ru ish, which & could not prevent their ringing, or o lige them to gather up, and which the servants refused to 6clean after them,* & had to spend a considera le portion of my valua le leisure moments on my knees upon the floor, in painsfully reducing things to order. 0nce & told them that they should not taste their supper till they had picked up everything from the carpet# -anny might have hers when she had taken up a certain $uantity, (ary "nn when she had gathered twice as many, and Tom was to clear away the rest. %onderful to state, the girls did their part# ut Tom was in such a fury that he flew upon the ta le, scattered the read and milk a out the floor, struck his sisters, kicked the coals out of the coal-pan, attempted to overthrow the ta le and chairs, and seemed inclined to make a 8ouglas-larder of the whole contents of the room/ ut & sei3ed upon him, and, sending (ary "nn to call her mamma, held him, in spite of kicks, lows, yells, and e+ecrations, till (rs. Bloomfield made her appearance. 6%hat is the matter with my oy;* said she. "nd when the matter was e+plained to her, all she did was to send for the nursery-maid to put the room in order, and ring (aster Bloomfield his supper. 6There now,* cried Tom, triumphantly, looking up from his viands with his mouth almost too full for speech. 6There now, (iss Grey7 you see &*ve got my supper in spite of you/ and & haven*t picked up a single thing7* The only person in the house who had any real sympathy for me was the nurse# for she had suffered like afflictions, though in a smaller degree# as she had not the task of teaching, nor was she so responsi le for the conduct of her charge.

+ h, 0iss Grey'. she %oul# s"y, +you h"4e so,e trouble %ith the, chil#er'.
6& have, indeed, Betty# and & daresay you know what it is.* 6"y, & do so7 But & don*t ve+ myself o*er *em as you do. "nd then, you see, & hit *em a slap sometimes/ and them little *uns1& gives *em a good whipping now and then/ there*s nothing else will do for *em, as what they say. .owsoever, &*ve lost my place for it.* 6.ave you, Betty; & heard you were going to leave.* 6)h, less you, yes7 (issis gave me warning a three wik sin*. 'he told me afore =hristmas how it mud e, if & hit *em again# ut & couldn*t hold my hand off *em at nothing. & know not how you do, for (iss (ary "nn*s worse y the half nor her sisters7*

CHAPTER 3THE *!C)E Besides the old lady, there was another relative of the family, whose visits were a great annoyance to me1this was 6:ncle ,o son,* (rs. Bloomfield*s rother# a tall, self-sufficient fellow, with dark hair and sallow comple+ion like his sister, a nose that seemed to disdain the earth, and little grey eyes, fre$uently half-closed, with a mi+ture of real stupidity and affected contempt of all surrounding o jects. .e was a thick-set, strongly- uilt man, ut he had found some means of compressing his waist into a remarka ly small compass# and that, together with the unnatural stillness of his form, showed that the loftyminded, manly (r. ,o son, the scorner of the female se+, was not a ove the foppery of stays. .e seldom deigned to notice me# and, when he did, it was with a certain supercilious insolence of tone and manner that convinced me he was no gentleman/ though it was intended to have a contrary effect. But it was not for that & disliked his coming, so much as for the harm he did the children1 encouraging all their evil propensities, and undoing in a few minutes the little good it had taken me months of la our to achieve. -anny and little .arriet he seldom condescended to notice# ut (ary "nn was something of a favourite. .e was continually encouraging her tendency to affectation 2which & had done my utmost to crush4, talking a out her pretty face, and filling her head with all manner of conceited notions concerning her personal appearance 2which & had instructed her to regard as dust in the alance compared with the cultivation of her mind and manners4# and & never saw a child so suscepti le of flattery as she was. %hatever was wrong, in either her or her rother, he would encourage y laughing at, if not y actually praising/ people little know the injury they do to children y laughing at their faults, and making a pleasant jest of what their true friends have endeavoured to teach them to hold in grave a horrence. Though not a positive drunkard, (r. ,o son ha itually swallowed great $uantities of wine, and took with relish an occasional glass of randy and water. .e taught his nephew to imitate him in this to the utmost of his a ility, and to elieve that the more wine and spirits he could take, and the etter he liked them, the more he manifested his old, and manly spirit, and rose superior to his sisters. (r. Bloomfield had not much to say against it, for his favourite everage was gin and water# of which he took a considera le portion every day, y dint of constant sipping1and to that & chiefly attri uted his dingy comple+ion and waspish temper. (r. ,o son likewise encouraged Tom*s propensity to persecute the lower creation, oth y precept and e+ample. "s he fre$uently came to course or shoot over his rother-in-law*s grounds, he would ring his favourite dogs with him# and he treated them so rutally that, poor as & was, & would have given a sovereign any day to see one of them ite him, provided the animal could have done it with impunity. 'ometimes, when in a very complacent mood, he would go a- irds*-nesting with the children, a thing that irritated and annoyed me e+ceedingly# as, y fre$uent and persevering attempts, & flattered myself & had

partly shown them the evil of this pastime, and hoped, in time, to ring them to some general sense of justice and humanity# ut ten minutes* irds*-nesting with uncle ,o son, or even a laugh from him at some relation of their former ar arities, was sufficient at once to destroy the effect of my whole ela orate course of reasoning and persuasion. .appily, however, during that spring, they never, ut once, got anything ut empty nests, or eggs1 eing too impatient to leave them till the irds were hatched# that once, Tom, who had een with his uncle into the neigh ouring plantation, came running in high glee into the garden, with a rood of little callow nestlings in his hands. (ary "nn and -anny, whom & was just ringing out, ran to admire his spoils, and to eg each a ird for themselves. 69o, not one7* cried Tom. 6They*re all mine# uncle ,o son gave them to me1one, two, three, four, five1you shan*t touch one of them7 no, not one, for your lives7* continued he, e+ultingly# laying the nest on the ground, and standing over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his reechespockets, his ody ent forward, and his face twisted into all manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight. 6But you shall see me fettle *em off. (y word, ut & will wallop *em; 'ee if & don*t now. By gum7 ut there*s rare sport for me in that nest.* 6But, Tom,* said &, 6& shall not allow you to torture those irds. They must either e killed at once or carried ack to the place you took them from, that the old irds may continue to feed them.* 6But you don*t know where that is, (adam/ it*s only me and uncle ,o son that knows that.* 6But if you don*t tell me, & shall kill them myself1much as & hate it.* 6You daren*t. You daren*t touch them for your life7 ecause you know papa and mamma, and uncle ,o son, would e angry. .a, ha7 &*ve caught you there, (iss7* 6& shall do what & think right in a case of this sort without consulting any one. &f your papa and mamma don*t happen to approve of it, & shall e sorry to offend them# ut your uncle ,o son*s opinions, of course, are nothing to me.* 'o saying1urged y a sense of duty1at the risk of oth making myself sick and incurring the wrath of my employers1& got a large flat stone, that had een reared up for a mouse-trap y the gardener# then, having once more vainly endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the irds e carried ack, & asked what he intended to do with them. %ith fiendish glee he commenced a list of torments# and while he was usied in the relation, & dropped the stone upon his intended victims and crushed them flat eneath it. !oud were the outcries, terri le the e+ecrations, conse$uent upon this daring outrage# uncle ,o son had een coming up the walk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his dog. Tom flew towards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of 5uno. (r. ,o son leant upon his gun, and laughed e+cessively at the violence of his nephew*s passion, and the itter maledictions and oppro rious epithets he heaped upon me. 6%ell, you are a good *un7* e+claimed he, at length, taking up

his weapon and proceeding towards the house. 68amme, ut the lad has some spunk in him, too. =urse me, if ever & saw a no ler little scoundrel than that. .e*s eyond petticoat government already/ y God7 he defies mother, granny, governess, and all7 .a, ha, ha7 9ever mind, Tom, &*ll get you another rood tomorrow.* 6&f you do, (r. ,o son, & shall kill them too,* said &. 6.umph7* replied he, and having honoured me with a road stare1which, contrary to his e+pectations, & sustained without flinching1he turned away with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house. Tom ne+t went to tell his mamma. &t was not her way to say much on any su ject# ut, when she ne+t saw me, her aspect and demeanour were dou ly dark and chilled. "fter some casual remark a out the weather, she o served16& am sorry, (iss Grey, you should think it necessary to interfere with (aster Bloomfield*s amusements# he was very much distressed a out your destroying the irds.* 6%hen (aster Bloomfield*s amusements consist in injuring sentient creatures,* & answered, 6& think it my duty to interfere.* 6You seemed to have forgotten,* said she, calmly, 6that the creatures were all created for our convenience.* & thought that doctrine admitted some dou t, ut merely replied16&f they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.* 6& think,* said she, 6a child*s amusement is scarcely to e weighed against the welfare of a soulless rute.* 6But, for the child*s own sake, it ought not to e encouraged to have such amusements,* answered &, as meekly as & could, to make up for such unusual pertinacity. 6?Blessed are the merciful, for they shall o tain mercy.@* 60h7 of course# ut that refers to our conduct towards each other.* 6?The merciful man shows mercy to his east,@* & ventured to add. 6& think you have not shown much mercy,* replied she, with a short, itter laugh# 6killing the poor irds y wholesale in that shocking manner, and putting the dear oy to such misery for a mere whim.* & judged it prudent to say no more. This was the nearest approach to a $uarrel & ever had with (rs. Bloomfield# as well as the greatest num er of words & ever e+changed with her at one time, since the day of my first arrival. But (r. ,o son and old (rs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose coming to %ellwood .ouse annoyed me# every visitor distur ed me more or less# not so much ecause they neglected me 2though & did feel their conduct strange and disagreea le in that respect4, as ecause & found it impossi le to keep my pupils away from them, as & was repeatedly desired to do/ Tom must talk to them, and (ary "nn must e noticed y them. 9either the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree of shamefacedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and clamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with the most impertinent $uestions, roughly collar the gentlemen,

clim their knees uninvited, hang a out their shoulders or rifle their pockets, pull the ladies* gowns, disorder their hair, tum le their collars, and importunately eg for their trinkets. (rs. Bloomfield had the sense to e shocked and annoyed at all this, ut she had not sense to prevent it/ she e+pected me to prevent it. But how could &1 when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces, continually flattered and indulged them, out of complaisance to their parents1how could &, with my homely garments, every-day face, and honest words, draw them away; & strained every nerve to do so/ y striving to amuse them, & endeavoured to attract them to my side# y the e+ertion of such authority as & possessed, and y such severity as & dared to use, & tried to deter them from tormenting the guests# and y reproaching their unmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat it. But they knew no shame# they scorned authority which had no terrors to ack it# and as for kindness and affection, either they had no hearts, or such as they had were so strongly guarded, and so well concealed, that &, with all my efforts, had not yet discovered how to reach them. But soon my trials in this $uarter came to a close1sooner than & either e+pected or desired# for one sweet evening towards the close of (ay, as & was rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and congratulating myself upon having made some progress with my pupils 2as far as their learning went, at least, for & had instilled something into their heads, and & had, at length, rought them to e a little1a very little1more rational a out getting their lessons done in time to leave some space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and me all day long to no purpose4, (rs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly told me that after (idsummer my services would e no longer re$uired. 'he assured me that my character and general conduct were une+ceptiona le# ut the children had made so little improvement since my arrival that (r. Bloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some other mode of instruction. Though superior to most children of their years in a ilities, they were decidedly ehind them in attainments# their manners were uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. "nd this she attri uted to a want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering care on my part. :nshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing care, were the very $ualifications on which & had secretly prided myself# and y which & had hoped in time to overcome all difficulties, and o tain success at last. & wished to say something in my own justification# ut in attempting to speak, & felt my voice falter# and rather than testify any emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow that were already gathering in my eyes, & chose to keep silence, and ear all like a self-convicted culprit. Thus was & dismissed, and thus & sought my home. "las7 what would they think of me; una le, after all my oasting, to keep my place, even for a single year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was asserted y my own aunt to e a 6very nice woman.* .aving een thus weighed in the alance and found wanting, & need not hope they would e willing to try me again. "nd

this was an unwelcome thought# for ve+ed, harassed, disappointed as & had een, and greatly as & had learned to love and value my home, & was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing to rela+ my efforts. & knew that all parents were not like (r. and (rs. Bloomfield, and & was certain all children were not like theirs. The ne+t family must e different, and any change must e for the etter. & had een seasoned y adversity, and tutored y e+perience, and & longed to redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more than that of all the world to me.

CHAPTER 3ITHE PARS !AGE AGAI! -or a few months & remained peacea ly at home, in the $uiet enjoyment of li erty and rest, and genuine friendship, from all of which & had fasted so long# and in the earnest prosecution of my studies, to recover what & had lost during my stay at %ellwood .ouse, and to lay in new stores for future use. (y father*s health was still very infirm, ut not materially worse than when & last saw him# and & was glad & had it in my power to cheer him y my return, and to amuse him with singing his favourite songs. 9o one triumphed over my failure, or said & had etter have taken his or her advice, and $uietly stayed at home. "ll were glad to have me ack again, and lavished more kindness than ever upon me, to make up for the sufferings & had undergone# ut not one would touch a shilling of what & had so cheerfully earned and so carefully saved, in the hope of sharing it with them. By dint of pinching here, and scraping there, our de ts were already nearly paid. (ary had had good success with her drawings# ut our father had insisted upon her likewise keeping all the produce of her industry to herself. "ll we could spare from the supply of our hum le wardro e and our little casual e+penses, he directed us to put into the savings*- ank# saying, we knew not how soon we might e dependent on that alone for support/ for he felt he had not long to e with us, and what would ecome of our mother and us when he was gone, God only knew7 8ear papa7 if he had trou led himself less a out the afflictions that threatened us in case of his death, & am convinced that dreaded event would not have taken place so soon. (y mother would never suffer him to ponder on the su ject if she could help it. 60h, ,ichard7* e+claimed she, on one occasion, 6if you would ut dismiss such gloomy su jects from your mind, you would live as long as any of us# at least you would live to see the girls married, and yourself a happy grandfather, with a canty old dame for your companion.* (y mother laughed, and so did my father/ ut his laugh soon perished in a dreary sigh.

+They ,"rrie#$oor $enniless things'. s"i# he5 +%ho %ill t"ke the, I %on#er'.
6%hy, no ody shall that isn*t thankful for them. %asn*t & penniless when you took me; and you pretended, at least, to e vastly pleased with your ac$uisition. But it*s no matter whether they get married or not/ we can devise a thousand honest ways of making a livelihood. "nd & wonder, ,ichard, you can think of othering your head a out our poverty in case of your death# as if that would e anything compared with the calamity of losing you1an affliction that you well know would swallow up all others, and which you ought to do your utmost to preserve us from/ and there is nothing like a cheerful mind for keeping the ody in health.* 6& know, "lice, it is wrong to keep repining as & do, ut & cannot help it/ you must ear with me.* 6& won*t ear with you, if & can alter you,* replied my mother/ ut the harshness of her words was undone y the earnest affection of her tone and pleasant smile, that made my father smile again, less sadly and less transiently than was his wont. 6(amma,* said &, as soon as & could find an opportunity of speaking with her alone, 6my money is ut little, and cannot last long# if & could increase it, it would lessen papa*s an+iety, on one su ject at least. & cannot draw like (ary, and so the est thing & could do would e to look out for another situation.* 6"nd so you would actually try again, "gnes;* 68ecidedly, & would.* 6%hy, my dear, & should have thought you had had enough of it.* 6& know,* said &, 6every ody is not like (r. and (rs. Bloomfield1* 6'ome are worse,* interrupted my mother. 6But not many, & think,* replied &, 6and &*m sure all children are not like theirs# for & and (ary were not/ we always did as you id us, didn*t we;* 6Generally/ ut then, & did not spoil you# and you were not perfect angels after all/ (ary had a fund of $uiet o stinacy, and you were somewhat faulty in regard to temper# ut you were very good children on the whole.* 6& know & was sulky sometimes, and & should have een glad to see these children sulky sometimes too# for then & could have understood them/ ut they never were, for they could not e offended, nor hurt, nor ashamed/ they could not e unhappy in any way, e+cept when they were in a passion.* 6%ell, if they could not, it was not their fault/ you cannot e+pect stone to e as plia le as clay.* 69o, ut still it is very unpleasant to live with such unimpressi le, incomprehensi le creatures. You cannot love them# and if you could, your love would e utterly thrown away/ they could neither return it, nor value, nor understand it. But, however, even if & should stum le on such a family again, which is $uite unlikely, & have all this e+perience to egin with, and & should

manage etter another time# and the end and aim of this pream le is, let me try again.* 6%ell, my girl, you are not easily discouraged, & see/ & am glad of that. But, let me tell you, you are a good deal paler and thinner than when you first left home# and we cannot have you undermining your health to hoard up money either for yourself or others.* 6(ary tells me & am changed too# and & don*t much wonder at it, for & was in a constant state of agitation and an+iety all day long/ ut ne+t time & am determined to take things coolly.* "fter some further discussion, my mother promised once more to assist me, provided & would wait and e patient# and & left her to roach the matter to my father, when and how she deemed it most advisa le/ never dou ting her a ility to o tain his consent. (eantime, & searched, with great interest, the advertising columns of the newspapers, and wrote answers to every 6%anted a Governess* that appeared at all eligi le# ut all my letters, as well as the replies, when & got any, were dutifully shown to my mother# and she, to my chagrin, made me reject the situations one after another/ these were low people, these were too e+acting in their demands, and these too niggardly in their remuneration. 6Your talents are not such as every poor clergyman*s daughter possesses, "gnes,* she would say, 6and you must not throw them away. ,emem er, you promised to e patient/ there is no need of hurry/ you have plenty of time efore you, and may have many chances yet.* "t length, she advised me to put an advertisement, myself, in the paper, stating my $ualifications, Ac. 6(usic, singing, drawing, -rench, !atin, and German,* said she, 6are no mean assem lage/ many will e glad to have so much in one instructor# and this time, you shall try your fortune in a somewhat higher family in that of some genuine, thorough red gentleman# for such are far more likely to treat you with proper respect and consideration than those purse-proud tradespeople and arrogant upstarts. & have known several among the higher ranks who treated their governesses $uite as one of the family# though some, & allow, are as insolent and e+acting as any one else can e/ for there are ad and good in all classes.* The advertisement was $uickly written and despatched. 0f the two parties who answered it, ut one would consent to give me fifty pounds, the sum my mother ade me name as the salary & should re$uire# and here, & hesitated a out engaging myself, as & feared the children would e too old, and their parents would re$uire some one more showy, or more e+perienced, if not more accomplished than &. But my mother dissuaded me from declining it on that account/ & should do vastly well, she said, if & would only throw aside my diffidence, and ac$uire a little more confidence in myself. & was just to give a plain, true statement of my ac$uirements and $ualifications, and name what stipulations & chose to make, and then await the result. The only stipulation & ventured to propose, was that & might e allowed two months* holidays during the

year to visit my friends, at (idsummer and =hristmas. The unknown lady, in her reply, made no o jection to this, and stated that, as to my ac$uirements, she had no dou t & should e a le to give satisfaction# ut in the engagement of governesses she considered those things as ut su ordinate points# as eing situated in the neigh ourhood of 0---, she could get masters to supply any deficiencies in that respect/ ut, in her opinion, ne+t to unimpeacha le morality, a mild and cheerful temper and o liging disposition were the most essential re$uisities. (y mother did not relish this at all, and now made many o jections to my accepting the situation# in which my sister warmly supported her/ ut, unwilling to e alked again, & overruled them all# and, having first o tained the consent of my father 2who had, a short time previously, een apprised of these transactions4, & wrote a most o liging epistle to my unknown correspondent, and, finally, the argain was concluded. &t was decreed that on the last day of 5anuary & was to enter upon my new office as governess in the family of (r. (urray, of .orton !odge, near 0---, a out seventy miles from our village/ a formida le distance to me, as & had never een a ove twenty miles from home in all the course of my twenty years* sojourn on earth# and as, moreover, every individual in that family and in the neigh ourhood was utterly unknown to myself and all my ac$uaintances. But this rendered it only the more pi$uant to me. & had now, in some measure, got rid of the mauvaise honte that had formerly oppressed me so much# there was a pleasing e+citement in the idea of entering these unknown regions, and making my way alone among its strange inha itants. & now flattered myself & was going to see something in the world/ (r. (urray*s residence was near a large town, and not in a manufacturing district, where the people had nothing to do ut to make money# his rank from what & could gather, appeared to e higher than that of (r. Bloomfield# and, dou tless, he was one of those genuine thorough red gentry my mother spoke of, who would treat his governess with due consideration as a respecta le well-educated lady, the instructor and guide of his children, and not a mere upper servant. Then, my pupils eing older, would e more rational, more teacha le, and less trou lesome than the last# they would e less confined to the schoolroom, and not re$uire that constant la our and incessant watching# and, finally, right visions mingled with my hopes, with which the care of children and the mere duties of a governess had little or nothing to do. Thus, the reader will see that & had no claim to e regarded as a martyr to filial piety, going forth to sacrifice peace and li erty for the sole purpose of laying up stores for the comfort and support of my parents/ though certainly the comfort of my father, and the future support of my mother, had a large share in my calculations# and fifty pounds appeared to me no ordinary sum. & must have decent clothes ecoming my station# & must, it seemed, put out my washing, and also pay for my four annual journeys etween .orton !odge and home# ut with strict attention to economy, surely twenty pounds, or little more, would cover those e+penses, and then there would e thirty for the ank, or little less/ what a valua le addition to

our stock7 0h, & must struggle to keep this situation, whatever it might e7 oth for my own honour among my friends and for the solid services & might render them y my continuance there.

CHAPTER 3IIH RT ! ) 1GE The BCst of 5anuary was a wild, tempestuous day/ there was a strong north wind, with a continual storm of snow drifting on the ground and whirling through the air. (y friends would have had me delay my departure, ut fearful of prejudicing my employers against me y such want of punctuality at the commencement of my undertaking, & persisted in keeping the appointment. & will not inflict upon my readers an account of my leaving home on that dark winter morning/ the fond farewells, the long, long journey to 0---, the solitary waitings in inns for coaches or trains1for there were some railways then1and, finally, the meeting at 0--- with (r. (urray*s servant, who had een sent with the phaeton to drive me from thence to .orton !odge. & will just state that the heavy snow had thrown such impediments in the way of oth horses and steamengines, that it was dark some hours efore & reached my journey*s end, and that a most ewildering storm came on at last, which made the few miles* space etween 0--- and .orton !odge a long and formida le passage. & sat resigned, with the cold, sharp snow drifting through my veil and filling my lap, seeing nothing, and wondering how the unfortunate horse and driver could make their way even as well as they did# and indeed it was ut a toilsome, creeping style of progression, to say the est of it. "t length we paused# and, at the call of the driver, someone unlatched and rolled ack upon their creaking hinges what appeared to e the park gates. Then we proceeded along a smoother road, whence, occasionally, & perceived some huge, hoary mass gleaming through the darkness, which & took to e a portion of a snow-clad tree. "fter a considera le time we paused again, efore the stately portico of a large house with long windows descending to the ground. & rose with some difficulty from under the superincum ent snowdrift, and alighted from the carriage, e+pecting that a kind and hospita le reception would indemnify me for the toils and hardships of the day. " gentleman person in lack opened the door, and admitted me into a spacious hall, lighted y an am ercoloured lamp suspended from the ceiling# he led me through this, along a passage, and opening the door of a ack room, told me that was the schoolroom. & entered, and found two young ladies and two young gentlemen1my future pupils, & supposed. "fter a formal greeting, the elder girl, who was trifling over a piece of canvas and a asket of German wools, asked if & should like to go upstairs. & replied in the affirmative, of course. 6(atilda, take a candle, and show her her room,* said she. (iss (atilda, a strapping hoyden of a out fourteen, with a short frock and trousers, shrugged her shoulders and made a slight grimace, ut took a candle and proceeded efore me up the ack stairs 2a long, steep, dou le flight4, and through a long, narrow passage, to a small ut tolera ly comforta le room. 'he

then asked me if & would take some tea or coffee. & was a out to answer 9o# ut remem ering that & had taken nothing since seven o*clock that morning, and feeling faint in conse$uence, & said & would take a cup of tea. 'aying she would tell 6Brown,* the young lady departed# and y the time & had divested myself of my heavy, wet cloak, shawl, onnet, Ac., a mincing damsel came to say the young ladies desired to know whether & would take my tea up there or in the schoolroom. :nder the plea of fatigue & chose to take it there. 'he withdrew# and, after a while, returned again with a small tea-tray, and placed it on the chest of drawers, which served as a dressing-ta le. .aving civilly thanked her, & asked at what time & should e e+pected to rise in the morning. 6The young ladies and gentlemen reakfast at half-past eight, ma*am,* said she# 6they rise early# ut, as they seldom do any lessons efore reakfast, & should think it will do if you rise soon after seven.* & desired her to e so kind as to call me at seven, and, promising to do so, she withdrew. Then, having roken my long fast on a cup of tea and a little thin read and utter, & sat down eside the small, smouldering fire, and amused myself with a hearty fit of crying# after which, & said my prayers, and then, feeling considera ly relieved, egan to prepare for ed. -inding that none of my luggage was rought up, & instituted a search for the ell# and failing to discover any signs of such a convenience in any corner of the room, & took my candle and ventured through the long passage, and down the steep stairs, on a voyage of discovery. (eeting a well-dressed female on the way, & told her what & wanted# ut not without considera le hesitation, as & was not $uite sure whether it was one of the upper servants, or (rs. (urray herself/ it happened, however, to e the lady*s-maid. %ith the air of one conferring an unusual favour, she vouchsafed to undertake the sending up of my things# and when & had re-entered my room, and waited and wondered a long time 2greatly fearing that she had forgotten or neglected to perform her promise, and dou ting whether to keep waiting or go to ed, or go down again4, my hopes, at length, were revived y the sound of voices and laughter, accompanied y the tramp of feet along the passage# and presently the luggage was rought in y a rough-looking maid and a man, neither of them very respectful in their demeanour to me. .aving shut the door upon their retiring footsteps, and unpacked a few of my things, & etook myself to rest# gladly enough, for & was weary in ody and mind. &t was with a strange feeling of desolation, mingled with a strong sense of the novelty of my situation, and a joyless kind of curiosity concerning what was yet unknown, that & awoke the ne+t morning# feeling like one whirled away y enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the clouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated from all he had ever seen or known efore# or like a thistle-seed orne on the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soil, where it must lie long enough efore it can take root and germinate, e+tracting nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature/ if, indeed, it ever can. But this gives no proper idea of my feelings at all# and no one that has not lived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can possi ly imagine what they were/ hardly

even if he has known what it is to awake some morning, and find himself in Port 9elson, in 9ew Dealand, with a world of waters etween himself and all that knew him. & shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which & raised my lind and looked out upon the unknown world/ a wide, white wilderness was all that met my ga3e# a waste of 8eserts tossed in snow, "nd heavy laden groves. & descended to the schoolroom with no remarka le eagerness to join my pupils, though not without some feeling of curiosity respecting what a further ac$uaintance would reveal. 0ne thing, among others of more o vious importance, & determined with myself1& must egin with calling them (iss and (aster. &t seemed to me a chilling and unnatural piece of punctilio etween the children of a family and their instructor and daily companion# especially where the former were in their early childhood, as at %ellwood .ouse# ut even there, my calling the little Bloomfields y their simple names had een regarded as an offensive li erty/ as their parents had taken care to show me, y carefully designating them (aster and (iss Bloomfield, Ac., in speaking to me. & had een very slow to take the hint, ecause the whole affair struck me as so very a surd# ut now & determined to e wiser, and egin at once with as much form and ceremony as any mem er of the family would e likely to re$uire/ and, indeed, the children eing so much older, there would e less difficulty# though the little words (iss and (aster seemed to have a surprising effect in repressing all familiar, open-hearted kindness, and e+tinguishing every gleam of cordiality that might arise etween us. "s & cannot, like 8og erry, find it in my heart to estow all my tediousness upon the reader, & will not go on to ore him with a minute detail of all the discoveries and proceedings of this and the following day. 9o dou t he will e amply satisfied with a slight sketch of the different mem ers of the family, and a general view of the first year or two of my sojourn among them. To egin with the head/ (r. (urray was, y all accounts, a lustering, roystering, country s$uire/ a devoted fo+-hunter, a skilful horse-jockey and farrier, an active, practical farmer, and a hearty on vivant. By all accounts, & say# for, e+cept on 'undays, when he went to church, & never saw him from month to month/ unless, in crossing the hall or walking in the grounds, the figure of a tall, stout gentleman, with scarlet cheeks and crimson nose, happened to come across me# on which occasions, if he passed near enough to speak, an unceremonious nod, accompanied y a 6(orning, (iss Grey,* or some such rief salutation, was usually vouchsafed. -re$uently, indeed, his loud laugh reached me from afar# and oftener still & heard him swearing and laspheming against the footmen, groom, coachman, or some other hapless dependant.

(rs. (urray was a handsome, dashing lady of forty, who certainly re$uired neither rouge nor padding to add to her charms# and whose chief enjoyments were, or seemed to e, in giving or fre$uenting parties, and in dressing at the very top of the fashion. & did not see her till eleven o*clock on the morning after my arrival# when she honoured me with a visit, just as my mother might step into the kitchen to see a new servant-girl/ yet not so, either, for my mother would have seen her immediately after her arrival, and not waited till the ne+t day# and, moreover, she would have addressed her in a more kind and friendly manner, and given her some words of comfort as well as a plain e+position of her duties# ut (rs. (urray did neither the one nor the other. 'he just stepped into the schoolroom on her return from ordering dinner in the housekeeper*s room, ade me good-morning, stood for two minutes y the fire, said a few words a out the weather and the 6rather rough* journey & must have had yesterday# petted her youngest child1a oy of ten1who had just een wiping his mouth and hands on her gown, after indulging in some savoury morsel from the housekeeper*s store# told me what a sweet, good oy he was# and then sailed out, with a selfcomplacent smile upon her face/ thinking, no dou t, that she had done $uite enough for the present, and had een delightfully condescending into the argain. .er children evidently held the same opinion, and & alone thought otherwise. "fter this she looked in upon me once or twice, during the a sence of my pupils, to enlighten me concerning my duties towards them. -or the girls she seemed an+ious only to render them as superficially attractive and showily accomplished as they could possi ly e made, without present trou le or discomfort to themselves# and & was to act accordingly1to study and strive to amuse and o lige, instruct, refine, and polish, with the least possi le e+ertion on their part, and no e+ercise of authority on mine. %ith regard to the two oys, it was much the same# only instead of accomplishments, & was to get the greatest possi le $uantity of !atin grammar and <alpy*s 8electus into their heads, in order to fit them for school1the greatest possi le $uantity at least without trou le to themselves. 5ohn might e a 6little high-spirited,* and =harles might e a little 6nervous and tedious1* 6But at all events, (iss Grey,* said she, 6& hope you will keep your temper, and e mild and patient throughout# especially with the dear little =harles# he is so e+tremely nervous and suscepti le, and so utterly unaccustomed to anything ut the tenderest treatment. You will e+cuse my naming these things to you# for the fact is, & have hitherto found all the governesses, even the very est of them, faulty in this particular. They wanted that meek and $uiet spirit, which 't. (atthew, or some of them, says is etter than the putting on of apparel1you will know the passage to which & allude, for you are a clergyman*s daughter. But & have no dou t you will give satisfaction in this respect as well as the rest. "nd remem er, on all occasions, when any of the young people do anything improper, if persuasion and gentle remonstrance will not do, let one of the others come and tell me# for & can speak to them more plainly than it would e proper for

you to do. "nd make them as happy as you can, (iss Grey, and & dare say you will do very well.* & o served that while (rs. (urray was so e+tremely solicitous for the comfort and happiness of her children, and continually talking a out it, she never once mentioned mine# though they were at home, surrounded y friends, and & an alien among strangers# and & did not yet know enough of the world, not to e considera ly surprised at this anomaly. (iss (urray, otherwise ,osalie, was a out si+teen when & came, and decidedly a very pretty girl# and in two years longer, as time more completely developed her form and added grace to her carriage and deportment, she ecame positively eautiful# and that in no common degree. 'he was tall and slender, yet not thin# perfectly formed, e+$uisitely fair, though not without a rilliant, healthy loom# her hair, which she wore in a profusion of long ringlets, was of a very light rown inclining to yellow# her eyes were pale lue, ut so clear and right that few would wish them darker# the rest of her features were small, not $uite regular, and not remarka ly otherwise/ ut altogether you could not hesitate to pronounce her a very lovely girl. & wish & could say as much for mind and disposition as & can for her form and face. Yet think not & have any dreadful disclosures to make/ she was lively, lighthearted, and could e very agreea le, with those who did not cross her will. Towards me, when & first came, she was cold and haughty, then insolent and over earing# ut, on a further ac$uaintance, she gradually laid aside her airs, and in time ecame as deeply attached to me as it was possi le for her to e to one of my character and position/ for she seldom lost sight, for a ove half an hour at a time, of the fact of my eing a hireling and a poor curate*s daughter. "nd yet, upon the whole, & elieve she respected me more than she herself was aware of# ecause & was the only person in the house who steadily professed good principles, ha itually spoke the truth, and generally endeavoured to make inclination ow to duty# and this & say, not, of course, in commendation of myself, ut to show the unfortunate state of the family to which my services were, for the present, devoted. There was no mem er of it in whom & regretted this sad want of principle so much as (iss (urray herself# not only ecause she had taken a fancy to me, ut ecause there was so much of what was pleasant and prepossessing in herself, that, in spite of her failings, & really liked her1when she did not rouse my indignation, or ruffle my temper y too great a display of her faults. These, however, & would fain persuade myself were rather the effect of her education than her disposition/ she had never een perfectly taught the distinction etween right and wrong# she had, like her rothers and sisters, een suffered, from infancy, to tyranni3e over nurses, governesses, and servants# she had not een taught to moderate her desires, to control her temper or ridle her will, or to sacrifice her own pleasure for the good of others. .er temper eing naturally good, she was never violent or morose, ut from constant indulgence, and ha itual scorn of reason, she was often testy and capricious# her mind had never een cultivated/ her intellect, at est, was somewhat shallow# she

possessed considera le vivacity, some $uickness of perception, and some talent for music and the ac$uisition of languages, ut till fifteen she had trou led herself to ac$uire nothing#1then the love of display had roused her faculties, and induced her to apply herself, ut only to the more showy accomplishments. "nd when & came it was the same/ everything was neglected ut -rench, German, music, singing, dancing, fancy-work, and a little drawing1such drawing as might produce the greatest show with the smallest la our, and the principal parts of which were generally done y me. -or music and singing, esides my occasional instructions, she had the attendance of the est master the country afforded# and in these accomplishments, as well as in dancing, she certainly attained great proficiency. To music, indeed, she devoted too much of her time, as, governess though & was, & fre$uently told her# ut her mother thought that if she liked it, she could not give too much time to the ac$uisition of so attractive an art. 0f fancy-work & knew nothing ut what & gathered from my pupil and my own o servation# ut no sooner was & initiated, than she made me useful in twenty different ways/ all the tedious parts of her work were shifted on to my shoulders# such as stretching the frames, stitching in the canvas, sorting the wools and silks, putting in the grounds, counting the stitches, rectifying mistakes, and finishing the pieces she was tired of. "t si+teen, (iss (urray was something of a romp, yet not more so than is natural and allowa le for a girl of that age, ut at seventeen, that propensity, like all other things, egan to give way to the ruling passion, and soon was swallowed up in the all-a sor ing am ition to attract and da33le the other se+. But enough of her/ now let us turn to her sister. (iss (atilda (urray was a verita le hoyden, of whom little need e said. 'he was a out two years and a half younger than her sister# her features were larger, her comple+ion much darker. 'he might possi ly make a handsome woman# ut she was far too ig- oned and awkward ever to e called a pretty girl, and at present she cared little a out it. ,osalie knew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they were, and valued them more highly than she ought to have done, had they een three times as great# (atilda thought she was well enough, ut cared little a out the matter# still less did she care a out the cultivation of her mind, and the ac$uisition of ornamental accomplishments. The manner in which she learnt her lessons and practised her music was calculated to drive any governess to despair. 'hort and easy as her tasks were, if done at all, they were slurred over, at any time and in any way# ut generally at the least convenient times, and in the way least eneficial to herself, and least satisfactory to me/ the short half-hour of practising was horri ly strummed through# she, meantime, unsparingly a using me, either for interrupting her with corrections, or for not rectifying her mistakes efore they were made, or something e$ually unreasona le. 0nce or twice, & ventured to remonstrate with her seriously for such irrational conduct# ut on each of those occasions, & received such reprehensive e+postulations from her mother, as convinced me that, if & wished to keep the situation, & must even let (iss (atilda go on in her own way.

%hen her lessons were over, however, her ill-humour was generally over too/ while riding her spirited pony, or romping with the dogs or her rothers and sister, ut especially with her dear rother 5ohn, she was as happy as a lark. "s an animal, (atilda was all right, full of life, vigour, and activity# as an intelligent eing, she was ar arously ignorant, indocile, careless and irrational# and, conse$uently, very distressing to one who had the task of cultivating her understanding, reforming her manners, and aiding her to ac$uire those ornamental attainments which, unlike her sister, she despised as much as the rest. .er mother was partly aware of her deficiencies, and gave me many a lecture as to how & should try to form her tastes, and endeavour to rouse and cherish her dormant vanity# and, y insinuating, skilful flattery, to win her attention to the desired o jects1which & would not do# and how & should prepare and smooth the path of learning till she could glide along it without the least e+ertion to herself/ which & could not, for nothing can e taught to any purpose without some little e+ertion on the part of the learner. "s a moral agent, (atilda was reckless, headstrong, violent, and unamena le to reason. 0ne proof of the deplora le state of her mind was, that from her father*s e+ample she had learned to swear like a trooper. .er mother was greatly shocked at the 6unlady-like trick,* and wondered 6how she had picked it up.* 6But you can soon reak her of it, (iss Grey,* said she/ 6it is only a ha it# and if you will just gently remind her every time she does so, & am sure she will soon lay it aside.* & not only 6gently reminded* her, & tried to impress upon her how wrong it was, and how distressing to the ears of decent people/ ut all in vain/ & was only answered y a careless laugh, and, 60h, (iss Grey, how shocked you are7 &*m so glad7* or, 6%ell7 & can*t help it# papa shouldn*t have taught me/ & learned it all from him# and may e a it from the coachman.* .er rother 5ohn, alias (aster (urray, was a out eleven when & came/ a fine, stout, healthy oy, frank and good-natured in the main, and might have een a decent lad had he een properly educated# ut now he was as rough as a young ear, oisterous, unruly, unprincipled, untaught, unteacha le1at least, for a governess under his mother*s eye. .is masters at school might e a le to manage him etter1for to school he was sent, greatly to my relief, in the course of a year# in a state, it is true, of scandalous ignorance as to !atin, as well as the more useful though more neglected things/ and this, dou tless, would all e laid to the account of his education having een entrusted to an ignorant female teacher, who had presumed to take in hand what she was wholly incompetent to perform. & was not delivered from his rother till full twelve months after, when he also was despatched in the same state of disgraceful ignorance as the former. (aster =harles was his mother*s peculiar darling. .e was little more than a year younger than 5ohn, ut much smaller, paler, and less active and ro ust# a pettish, cowardly, capricious, selfish little fellow, only active in doing mischief, and only clever in inventing falsehoods/ not simply to hide his faults, ut, in mere malicious wantonness, to ring odium upon others. &n fact, (aster =harles was a very great nuisance to me/ it was a trial of patience to live with him peacea ly#

to watch over him was worse# and to teach him, or pretend to teach him, was inconceiva le. "t ten years old, he could not read correctly the easiest line in the simplest ook# and as, according to his mother*s principle, he was to e told every word, efore he had time to hesitate or e+amine its orthography, and never even to e informed, as a stimulant to e+ertion, that other oys were more forward than he, it is not surprising that he made ut little progress during the two years & had charge of his education. .is minute portions of !atin grammar, Ac., were to e repeated over to him, till he chose to say he knew them, and then he was to e helped to say them# if he made mistakes in his little easy sums in arithmetic, they were to e shown him at once, and the sum done for him, instead of his eing left to e+ercise his faculties in finding them out himself# so that, of course, he took no pains to avoid mistakes, ut fre$uently set down his figures at random, without any calculation at all. & did not invaria ly confine myself to these rules/ it was against my conscience to do so# ut & seldom could venture to deviate from them in the slightest degree, without incurring the wrath of my little pupil, and su se$uently of his mamma# to whom he would relate my transgressions maliciously e+aggerated, or adorned with em ellishments of his own# and often, in conse$uence, was & on the point of losing or resigning my situation. But, for their sakes at home, & smothered my pride and suppressed my indignation, and managed to struggle on till my little tormentor was despatched to school# his father declaring that home education was 6no go# for him, it was plain# his mother spoiled him outrageously, and his governess could make no hand of him at all.* " few more o servations a out .orton !odge and its ongoings, and & have done with dry description for the present. The house was a very respecta le one# superior to (r. Bloomfield*s, oth in age, si3e, and magnificence/ the garden was not so tastefully laid out# ut instead of the smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded y palings, the grove of upstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park, stocked with deer, and eautified y fine old trees. The surrounding country itself was pleasant, as far as fertile fields, flourishing trees, $uiet green lanes, and smiling hedges with wild-flowers scattered along their anks, could make it# ut it was depressingly flat to one orn and nurtured among the rugged hills of ---. %e were situated nearly two miles from the village church, and, conse$uently, the family carriage was put in re$uisition every 'unday morning, and sometimes oftener. (r. and (rs. (urray generally thought it sufficient to show themselves at church once in the course of the day# ut fre$uently the children preferred going a second time to wandering a out the grounds all the day with nothing to do. &f some of my pupils chose to walk and take me with them, it was well for me# for otherwise my position in the carriage was to e crushed into the corner farthest from the open window, and with my ack to the horses/ a position which invaria ly made me sick# and if & were not actually o liged to leave the church in the middle of the service, my devotions were distur ed with a feeling of languor and sickliness, and the tormenting fear of its ecoming worse/ and a depressing

headache was generally my companion throughout the day, which would otherwise have een one of welcome rest, and holy, calm enjoyment. 6&t*s very odd, (iss Grey, that the carriage should always make you sick/ it never makes me,* remarked (iss (atilda, 69or me either,* said her sister# 6 ut & dare say it would, if & sat where she does 1such a nasty, horrid place, (iss Grey# & wonder how you can ear it7* 6& am o liged to ear it, since no choice is left me,*1& might have answered# ut in tenderness for their feelings & only replied,160h7 it is ut a short way, and if & am not sick in church, & don*t mind it.* &f & were called upon to give a description of the usual divisions and arrangements of the day, & should find it a very difficult matter. & had all my meals in the schoolroom with my pupils, at such times as suited their fancy/ sometimes they would ring for dinner efore it was half cooked# sometimes they would keep it waiting on the ta le for a ove an hour, and then e out of humour ecause the potatoes were cold, and the gravy covered with cakes of solid fat# sometimes they would have tea at four# fre$uently, they would storm at the servants ecause it was not in precisely at five# and when these orders were o eyed, y way of encouragement to punctuality, they would keep it on the ta le till seven or eight. Their hours of study were managed in much the same way# my judgment or convenience was never once consulted. 'ometimes (atilda and 5ohn would determine 6to get all the plaguy usiness over efore reakfast,* and send the maid to call me up at half-past five, without any scruple or apology# sometimes, & was told to e ready precisely at si+, and, having dressed in a hurry, came down to an empty room, and after waiting a long time in suspense, discovered that they had changed their minds, and were still in ed# or, perhaps, if it were a fine summer morning, Brown would come to tell me that the young ladies and gentlemen had taken a holiday, and were gone out# and then & was kept waiting for reakfast till & was almost ready to faint/ they having fortified themselves with something efore they went. 0ften they would do their lessons in the open air# which & had nothing to say against/ e+cept that & fre$uently caught cold y sitting on the damp grass, or from e+posure to the evening dew, or some insidious draught, which seemed to have no injurious effect on them. &t was $uite right that they should e hardy# yet, surely, they might have een taught some consideration for others who were less so. But & must not lame them for what was, perhaps, my own fault# for & never made any particular o jections to sitting where they pleased# foolishly choosing to risk the conse$uences, rather than trou le them for my convenience. Their indecorous manner of doing their lessons was $uite as remarka le as the caprice displayed in their choice of time and place. %hile receiving my instructions, or repeating what they had learned, they would lounge upon the sofa, lie on the rug, stretch, yawn, talk to each other, or look out of the window# whereas, & could not so much as stir the fire, or pick up the handkerchief & had dropped, without eing

re uked for inattention y one of my pupils, or told that 6mamma would not like me to e so careless.* The servants, seeing in what little estimation the governess was held y oth parents and children, regulated their ehaviour y the same standard. & have fre$uently stood up for them, at the risk of some injury to myself, against the tyranny and injustice of their young masters and mistresses# and & always endeavoured to give them as little trou le as possi le/ ut they entirely neglected my comfort, despised my re$uests, and slighted my directions. "ll servants, & am convinced, would not have done so# ut domestics in general, eing ignorant and little accustomed to reason and reflection, are too easily corrupted y the carelessness and ad e+ample of those a ove them# and these, & think, were not of the est order to egin with. & sometimes felt myself degraded y the life & led, and ashamed of su mitting to so many indignities# and sometimes & thought myself a fool for caring so much a out them, and feared & must e sadly wanting in =hristian humility, or that charity which 6suffereth long and is kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, eareth all things, endureth all things.* But, with time and patience, matters egan to e slightly ameliorated/ slowly, it is true, and almost impercepti ly# ut & got rid of my male pupils 2that was no trifling advantage4, and the girls, as & intimated efore concerning one of them, ecame a little less insolent, and egan to show some symptoms of esteem. 6(iss Grey was a $ueer creature/ she never flattered, and did not praise them half enough# ut whenever she did speak favoura ly of them, or anything elonging to them, they could e $uite sure her appro ation was sincere. 'he was very o liging, $uiet, and peacea le in the main, ut there were some things that put her out of temper/ they did not much care for that, to e sure, ut still it was etter to keep her in tune# as when she was in a good humour she would talk to them, and e very agreea le and amusing sometimes, in her way# which was $uite different to mamma*s, ut still very well for a change. 'he had her own opinions on every su ject, and kept steadily to them1very tiresome opinions they often were# as she was always thinking of what was right and what was wrong, and had a strange reverence for matters connected with religion, and an unaccounta le liking to good people.*

CHAPTER 3IIITHE +C 0I!G *T. "t eighteen, (iss (urray was to emerge from the $uiet o scurity of the schoolroom into the full la3e of the fashiona le world1as much of it, at least, as could e had out of !ondon# for her papa could not e persuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few weeks* residence in town. 'he was to make her dE ut on the third of 5anuary, at a magnificent all, which her mamma proposed to give to all the no ility and choice gentry of 0--- and its neigh ourhood for twenty miles round. 0f course, she looked forward to it with the wildest impatience, and the most e+travagant anticipations of delight.

6(iss Grey,* said she, one evening, a month efore the all-important day, as & was perusing a long and e+tremely interesting letter of my sister*s1which & had just glanced at in the morning to see that it contained no very ad news, and kept till now, una le efore to find a $uiet moment for reading it,16(iss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid letter, and listen to me7 &*m sure my talk must e far more amusing than that.* 'he seated herself on the low stool at my feet# and &, suppressing a sigh of ve+ation, egan to fold up the epistle. 6You should tell the good people at home not to ore you with such long letters,* said she# 6and, a ove all, do id them write on proper note-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the charming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.* 6The good people at home,* replied &, 6know very well that the longer their letters are, the etter & like them. & should e very sorry to receive a charming little lady-like note from any of them# and & thought you were too much of a lady yourself, (iss (urray, to talk a out the ?vulgarity@ of writing on a large sheet of paper.* 6%ell, & only said it to tease you. But now & want to talk a out the all# and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays till it is over.* 6%hy so;1& shall not e present at the all.* 69o, ut you will see the rooms decked out efore it egins, and hear the music, and, a ove all, see me in my splendid new dress. & shall e so charming, you*ll e ready to worship me1you really must stay.* 6& should like to see you very much# ut & shall have many opportunities of seeing you e$ually charming, on the occasion of some of the num erless alls and parties that are to e, and & cannot disappoint my friends y postponing my return so long.* 60h, never mind your friends7 Tell them we won*t let you go.* 6But, to say the truth, it would e a disappointment to myself/ & long to see them as much as they to see me1perhaps more.* 6%ell, ut it is such a short time.* 69early a fortnight y my computation# and, esides, & cannot ear the thoughts of a =hristmas spent from home/ and, moreover, my sister is going to e married.*

+Is she%hen-.
69ot till ne+t month# ut & want to e there to assist her in making preparations, and to make the est of her company while we have her.*

+/hy #i#n.t you tell ,e be&ore-.

6&*ve only got the news in this letter, which you stigmati3e as dull and stupid, and won*t let me read.* 6To whom is she to e married;* 6To (r. ,ichardson, the vicar of a neigh ouring parish.* 6&s he rich;* 69o# only comforta le.* 6&s he handsome;* 69o# only decent.* 6Young;* 69o# only middling.* 60h, mercy7 what a wretch7 %hat sort of a house is it;* 6" $uiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned garden, and1* 60h, stop71you*ll make me sick. .ow can she ear it;* 6& e+pect she*ll not only e a le to ear it, ut to e very happy. You did not ask me if (r. ,ichardson were a good, wise, or amia le man# & could have answered Yes, to all these $uestions1at least so (ary thinks, and & hope she will not find herself mistaken.* 6But1misera le creature7 how can she think of spending her life there, cooped up with that nasty old man# and no hope of change;* 6.e is not old/ he*s only si+ or seven and thirty# and she herself is twentyeight, and as so er as if she were fifty.* 60h7 that*s etter then1they*re well matched# ut do they call him the ?worthy vicar@;* 6& don*t know# ut if they do, & elieve he merits the epithet.* 6(ercy, how shocking7 and will she wear a white apron and make pies and puddings;* 6& don*t know a out the white apron, ut & dare say she will make pies and puddings now and then# ut that will e no great hardship, as she has done it efore.* 6"nd will she go a out in a plain shawl, and a large straw onnet, carrying tracts and one soup to her hus and*s poor parishioners;* 6&*m not clear a out that# ut & dare say she will do her est to make them comforta le in ody and mind, in accordance with our mother*s e+ample.*

CHAPTER I6THE BA)) 69ow, (iss Grey,* e+claimed (iss (urray, immediately & entered the schoolroom, after having taken off my outdoor garments, upon returning from my four weeks* recreation, 69ow1shut the door, and sit down, and &*ll tell you all a out the all.*

69o1damn it, no7* shouted (iss (atilda. 6.old your tongue, can*t ye; and let me tell her a out my new mare1such a splendour, (iss Grey7 a fine lood mare 1* 68o e $uiet, (atilda# and let me tell my news first.* 69o, no, ,osalie# you*ll e such a damned long time over it1she shall hear me first1&*ll e hanged if she doesn*t7* 6&*m sorry to hear, (iss (atilda, that you*ve not got rid of that shocking ha it yet.* 6%ell, & can*t help it/ ut &*ll never say a wicked word again, if you*ll only listen to me, and tell ,osalie to hold her confounded tongue.* ,osalie remonstrated, and & thought & should have een torn in pieces etween them# ut (iss (atilda having the loudest voice, her sister at length gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first/ so & was doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mare, its reeding and pedigree, its paces, its action, its spirit, Ac., and of her own ama3ing skill and courage in riding it# concluding with an assertion that she could clear a five- arred gate 6like winking,* that papa said she might hunt the ne+t time the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a right scarlet hunting-ha it for her. 60h, (atilda7 what stories you are telling7* e+claimed her sister. 6%ell,* answered she, no whit a ashed, 6& know & could clear a five- arred gate, if & tried, and papa will say & may hunt, and mamma will order the ha it when & ask it.* 6%ell, now get along,* replied (iss (urray# 6and do, dear (atilda, try to e a little more lady-like. (iss Grey, & wish you would tell her not to use such shocking words# she will call her horse a mare/ it is so inconceiva ly shocking7 and then she uses such dreadful e+pressions in descri ing it/ she must have learned it from the grooms. &t nearly puts me into fits when she egins.* 6& learned it from papa, you ass7 and his jolly friends,* said the young lady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she ha itually carried in her hand. 6&*m as good judge of horseflesh as the est of *m.* 6%ell, now get along, you shocking girl7 & really shall take a fit if you go on in such a way. "nd now, (iss Grey, attend to me# &*m going to tell you a out the all. You must e dying to hear a out it, & know. 0h, such a all7 You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of anything like it in all your life. The decorations, the entertainment, the supper, the music were indescri a le7 and then the guests7 There were two no lemen, three aronets, and five titled ladies, and other ladies and gentlemen innumera le. The ladies, of course, were of no conse$uence to me, e+cept to put me in a good humour with myself, y showing how ugly and awkward most of them were# and the est, mamma told me,1the most transcendent eauties among them, were nothing to me. "s for me, (iss Grey1&*m so sorry you didn*t see me7 & was charming1wasn*t &, (atilda;* 6(iddling.*

69o, ut & really was1at least so mamma said1and Brown and %illiamson. Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling in love that minute# and so & may e allowed to e a little vain. & know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl# ut then, you know, & don*t attri ute it all to my personal attractions/ & give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my e+$uisitely lovely dress1you must see it to-morrow1white gau3e over pink satin 1and so sweetly made7 and a necklace and racelet of eautiful, large pearls7* 6& have no dou t you looked very charming/ ut should that delight you so very much;* 60h, no71not that alone/ ut, then, & was so much admired# and & made so many con$uests in that one night1you*d e astonished to hear1*

+But %h"t goo# %ill they #o you-. +/h"t goo#' Think o& "ny %o,"n "sking th"t'.
6%ell, & should think one con$uest would e enough# and too much, unless the su jugation were mutual.* 60h, ut you know & never agree with you on those points. 9ow, wait a it, and &*ll tell you my principal admirers1those who made themselves very conspicuous that night and after/ for &*ve een to two parties since. :nfortunately the two no lemen, !ord G--- and !ord ----, were married, or & might have condescended to e particularly gracious to them# as it was, & did not/ though !ord ----, who hates his wife, was evidently much struck with me. .e asked me to dance with him twice1he is a charming dancer, y-the- y, and so am &/ you can*t think how well & did1& was astonished at myself. (y lord was very complimentary too1rather too much so in fact1and & thought proper to e a little haughty and repellent# ut & had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross wife ready to perish with spite and ve+ation1* 60h, (iss (urray7 you don*t mean to say that such a thing could really give you pleasure; .owever cross or1* 6%ell, & know it*s very wrong#1 ut never mind7 & mean to e good some time 1only don*t preach now, there*s a good creature. & haven*t told you half yet. !et me see. 0h7 & was going to tell you how many unmistakea le admirers & had/1 'ir Thomas "sh y was one,1'ir .ugh (eltham and 'ir Broadley %ilson are old codgers, only fit companions for papa and mamma. 'ir Thomas is young, rich, and gay# ut an ugly east, nevertheless/ however, mamma says & should not mind that after a few months* ac$uaintance. Then, there was .enry (eltham, 'ir .ugh*s younger son# rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with/ ut eing a younger son, that is all he is good for# then there was young (r. Green, rich enough, ut of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a mere country oo y7 and then, our good rector, (r. .atfield/ an hum le admirer he ought to consider

himself# ut & fear he has forgotten to num er humility among his stock of =hristian virtues.* 6%as (r. .atfield at the all;* 6Yes, to e sure. 8id you think he was too good to go;* 6& thought e might consider it unclerical.* 6By no means. .e did not profane his cloth y dancing# ut it was with difficulty he could refrain, poor man/ he looked as if he were dying to ask my hand just for one set# and1oh7 y-the- y1he*s got a new curate/ that seedy old fellow (r. Bligh has got his long-wished-for living at last, and is gone.*

+An# %h"t is the ne% one like-.

60h, such a east7 %eston his name is. & can give you his description in three words1an insensate, ugly, stupid lockhead. That*s four, ut no matter1 enough of him now.* Then she returned to the all, and gave me a further account of her deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended# and further particulars respecting 'ir Thomas "sh y and (essrs. (eltham, Green, and .atfield, and the ineffacea le impression she had wrought upon each of them. 6%ell, which of the four do you like est;* said &, suppressing my third or fourth yawn. 6& detest them all7* replied she, shaking her right ringlets in vivacious scorn.

+Th"t ,e"ns, I su$$ose, 7I like the, "ll8but %hich ,ost-.

69o, & really detest them all# ut .arry (eltham is the handsomest and most amusing, and (r. .atfield the cleverest, 'ir Thomas the wickedest, and (r. Green the most stupid. But the one &*m to have, & suppose, if &*m doomed to have any of them, is 'ir Thomas "sh y.*

+Surely not, i& he.s so %icke#, "n# i& you #islike hi,-.
60h, & don*t mind his eing wicked/ he*s all the etter for that# and as for disliking him1& shouldn*t greatly o ject to eing !ady "sh y of "sh y Park, if & must marry. But if & could e always young, & would e always single. & should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and co$uet with all the world, till & am on the verge of eing called an old maid# and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand con$uests, to reak all their hearts save one, y marrying some high- orn, rich, indulgent hus and, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies were dying to have.* 6%ell, as long as you entertain these views, keep single y all means, and never marry at all/ not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.*

CHAPTER 6THE CH*RCH 6%ell, (iss Grey, what do you think of the new curate;* asked (iss (urray, on our return from church the 'unday after the recommencement of our duties. 6& can scarcely tell,* was my reply/ 6& have not even heard him preach.*

+/ell, but you s"% hi,, #i#n.t you-.

6Yes, ut & cannot pretend to judge of a man*s character y a single cursory glance at his face.*

+But isn.t he ugly-.

6.e did not strike me as eing particularly so# & don*t dislike that cast of countenance/ ut the only thing & particularly noticed a out him was his style of reading# which appeared to me good1infinitely etter, at least, than (r. .atfield*s. .e read the !essons as if he were ent on giving full effect to every passage# it seemed as if the most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most ignorant have failed to understand# and the prayers he read as if he were not reading at all, ut praying earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.* 60h, yes, that*s all he is good for/ he can plod through the service well enough# ut he has not a single idea eyond it.*

+Ho% #o you kno%-.

60h7 & know perfectly well# & am an e+cellent judge in such matters. 8id you see how he went out of church; stumping along1as if there were no ody there ut himself1never looking to the right hand or the left, and evidently thinking of nothing ut just getting out of the church, and, perhaps, home to his dinner/ his great stupid head could contain no other idea.* 6& suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the s$uire*s pew,* said &, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility. 6&ndeed7 & should have een highly indignant if he had dared to do such a thing7* replied she, haughtily tossing her head# then, after a moment*s reflection, she added16%ell, well7 & suppose he*s good enough for his place/ ut &*m glad &*m not dependent on him for amusement1that*s all. 8id you see how (r. .atfield hurried out to get a ow from me, and e in time to put us into the carriage;* 6Yes,* answered &# internally adding, 6and & thought it somewhat derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit in such eager haste to shake hands with the s$uire, and hand his wife and daughters into their carriage/ and, moreover, & owe him a grudge for nearly shutting me out of it*# for, in fact, though & was standing efore his face, close eside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he would persist in putting them up and closing the door, till one of the

family stopped him y calling out that the governess was not in yet# then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them good-morning, and leaving the footman to finish the usiness. 9ota ene.1(r. .atfield never spoke to me, neither did 'ir .ugh or !ady (eltham, nor (r. .arry or (iss (eltham, nor (r. Green or his sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who fre$uented that church/ nor, in fact, any one that visited at .orton !odge. (iss (urray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself and her sister/ she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves in the garden# and esides, she elieved .arry (eltham would e at church. 6-or,* said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the glass, 6he has een a most e+emplary attendant at church these last few 'undays/ you would think he was $uite a good =hristian. "nd you may go with us, (iss Grey/ & want you to see him# he is so greatly improved since he returned from a road1you can*t think7 "nd esides, then you will have an opportunity of seeing the eautiful (r. %eston again, and of hearing him preach.* & did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner, and the clearness and force of his style. &t was truly refreshing to hear such a sermon, after eing so long accustomed to the dry, prosy discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues of the rector. (r. .atfield would come sailing up the aisle, or rather sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying ehind him and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a con$ueror ascending his triumphal car# then, sinking on the velvet cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration for a certain time# then mutter over a =ollect, and ga le through the !ord*s Prayer, rise, draw off one right lavender glove, to give the congregation the enefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cam ric handkerchief, recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of 'cripture, as a head-piece to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition which, as a composition, might e considered good, though far too studied and too artificial to e pleasing to me/ the propositions were well laid down, the arguments logically conducted# and yet, it was sometimes hard to listen $uietly throughout, without some slight demonstrations of disapproval or impatience. .is favourite su jects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies, apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and o edience to the clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the a solute necessity of o serving all the forms of godliness, the reprehensi le presumption of individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected with religion, or to e guided y their own interpretations of 'cripture, and, occasionally 2to please his wealthy parishioners4 the necessity of deferential o edience from the poor to the rich1supporting his ma+ims and e+hortations throughout with $uotations from the -athers/ with whom he appeared to e far etter ac$uainted than with the "postles and )vangelists, and whose importance he seemed to consider at least e$ual to

theirs. But now and then he gave us a sermon of a different order1what some would call a very good one# ut sunless and severe/ representing the 8eity as a terri le taskmaster rather than a enevolent father. Yet, as & listened, & felt inclined to think the man was sincere in all he said/ he must have changed his views, and ecome decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, yet still devout. But such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, y hearing his voice in jocund collo$uy with some of the (elthams or Greens, or, perhaps, the (urrays themselves# pro a ly laughing at his own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something to think a out# perchance, e+ulting in the thought that old Betty .olmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe, which had een her daily solace for upwards of thirty years/ that George .iggins would e frightened out of his 'a ath evening walks, and Thomas 5ackson would e sorely trou led in his conscience, and shaken in his sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day. Thus, & could not ut conclude that (r. .atfield was one of those who 6 ind heavy urdens, and grievous to e orne, and lay them upon men*s shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers*# and who 6make the word of God of none effect y their traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.* & was well pleased to o serve that the new curate resem led him, as far as & could see, in none of these particulars. 6%ell, (iss Grey, what do you think of him now;* said (iss (urray, as we took our places in the carriage after service. 69o harm still,* replied &. 69o harm7* repeated she in ama3ement. 6%hat do you mean;* 6& mean, & think no worse of him than & did efore.* 69o worse7 & should think not indeed1$uite the contrary7 &s he not greatly improved;* 60h, yes# very much indeed,* replied &# for & had now discovered that it was .arry (eltham she meant, not (r. %eston. That gentleman had eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies/ a thing he would hardly have ventured to do had their mother een present# he had likewise politely handed them into the carriage. .e had not attempted to shut me out, like (r. .atfield# neither, of course, had he offered me his assistance 2& should not have accepted it, if he had4, ut as long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own a ode/ ut & had scarcely noticed him all the time. (y companions, however, had een more o servant# and, as we rolled along, they discussed etween them not only his looks, words, and actions, ut every feature of his face, and every article of his apparel. 6You shan*t have him all to yourself, ,osalie,* said (iss (atilda at the close of this discussion# 6& like him/ & know he*d make a nice, jolly companion for me.* 6%ell, you*re $uite welcome to him, (atilda,* replied her sister, in a tone of affected indifference.

6"nd &*m sure,* continued the other, 6he admires me $uite as much as he does you# doesn*t he, (iss Grey;* 6& don*t know# &*m not ac$uainted with his sentiments.* 6%ell, ut he does though.* 6(y dear (atilda7 no ody will ever admire you till you get rid of your rough, awkward manners.* 60h, stuff7 .arry (eltham likes such manners# and so do papa*s friends.* 6%ell, you may captivate old men, and younger sons# ut no ody else, & am sure, will ever take a fancy to you.* 6& don*t care/ &*m not always gra ing after money, like you and mamma. &f my hus and is a le to keep a few good horses and dogs, & shall e $uite satisfied# and all the rest may go to the devil7* 6%ell, if you use such shocking e+pressions, &*m sure no real gentleman will ever venture to come near you. ,eally, (iss Grey, you should not let her do so.* 6& can*t possi ly prevent it, (iss (urray.* 6"nd you*re $uite mistaken, (atilda, in supposing that .arry (eltham admires you/ & assure you he does nothing of the kind.* (atilda was eginning an angry reply# ut, happily, our journey was now at an end# and the contention was cut short y the footman opening the carriage-door, and letting down the steps for our descent.

CHAPTER 6ITHE C TTAGERS "s & had now only one regular pupil1though she contrived to give me as much trou le as three or four ordinary ones, and though her sister still took lessons in German and drawing1& had considera ly more time at my own disposal than & had ever een lessed with efore, since & had taken upon me the governess*s yoke# which time & devoted partly to correspondence with my friends, partly to reading, study, and the practice of music, singing, Ac., partly to wandering in the grounds or adjacent fields, with my pupils if they wanted me, alone if they did not. 0ften, when they had no more agreea le occupation at hand, the (isses (urray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor cottagers on their father*s estate, to receive their flattering homage, or to hear the old stories or gossiping news of the garrulous old women# or, perhaps, to enjoy the purer pleasure of making the poor people happy with their cheering presence and their occasional gifts, so easily estowed, so thankfully received. 'ometimes, & was called upon to accompany one or oth of the sisters in these visits# and sometimes & was desired to go alone, to fulfil some promise which they had een more ready to make than to perform# to carry some small donation, or read to one who was sick or seriously disposed/ and thus & made a few ac$uaintances among the cottagers# and, occasionally, & went to see them on my own account.

& generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either of the young ladies# for they, chiefly owing to their defective education, comported themselves towards their inferiors in a manner that was highly disagreea le for me to witness. They never, in thought, e+changed places with them# and, conse$uently, had no consideration for their feelings, regarding them as an order of eings entirely different from themselves. They would watch the poor creatures at their meals, making uncivil remarks a out their food, and their manner of eating# they would laugh at their simple notions and provincial e+pressions, till some of them scarcely durst venture to speak# they would call the grave elderly men and women old fools and silly old lockheads to their faces/ and all this without meaning to offend. & could see that the people were often hurt and annoyed y such conduct, though their fear of the 6grand ladies* prevented them from testifying any resentment# ut they never perceived it. They thought that, as these cottagers were poor and untaught, they must e stupid and rutish# and as long as they, their superiors, condescended to talk to them, and to give them shillings and half-crowns, or articles of clothing, they had a right to amuse themselves, even at their e+pense# and the people must adore them as angels of light, condescending to minister to their necessities, and enlighten their hum le dwellings. & made many and various attempts to deliver my pupils from these delusive notions without alarming their pride1which was easily offended, and not soon appeased1 ut with little apparent result# and & know not which was the more reprehensi le of the two/ (atilda was more rude and oisterous# ut from ,osalie*s womanly age and lady-like e+terior etter things were e+pected/ yet she was as provokingly careless and inconsiderate as a giddy child of twelve. 0ne right day in the last week of -e ruary, & was walking in the park, enjoying the threefold lu+ury of solitude, a ook, and pleasant weather# for (iss (atilda had set out on her daily ride, and (iss (urray was gone in the carriage with her mamma to pay some morning calls. But it struck me that & ought to leave these selfish pleasures, and the park with its glorious canopy of right lue sky, the west wind sounding through its yet leafless ranches, the snow-wreaths still lingering in its hollows, ut melting fast eneath the sun, and the graceful deer rowsing on its moist her age already assuming the freshness and verdure of spring1and go to the cottage of one 9ancy Brown, a widow, whose son was at work all day in the fields, and who was afflicted with an inflammation in the eyes# which had for some time incapacitated her from reading/ to her own great grief, for she was a woman of a serious, thoughtful turn of mind. & accordingly went, and found her alone, as usual, in her little, close, dark cottage, redolent of smoke and confined air, ut as tidy and clean as she could make it. 'he was seated eside her little fire 2consisting of a few red cinders and a it of stick4, usily knitting, with a small sackcloth cushion at her feet, placed for the accommodation of her gentle friend the cat, who was seated thereon, with her long tail half encircling her velvet paws, and her half-closed eyes dreamily ga3ing on the low, crooked fender.

+/ell, !"ncy, ho% "re you to9#"y-.

6%hy, middling, (iss, i* myseln1my eyes is no etter, ut &*m a deal easier i* my mind nor & have een,* replied she, rising to welcome me with a contented smile# which & was glad to see, for 9ancy had een somewhat afflicted with religious melancholy. & congratulated her upon the change. 'he agreed that it was a great lessing, and e+pressed herself 6right down thankful for it*# adding, 6&f it please God to spare my sight, and make me so as & can read my Bi le again, & think & shall e as happy as a $ueen.* 6& hope .e will, 9ancy,* replied &# 6and, meantime, &*ll come and read to you now and then, when & have a little time to spare.* %ith e+pressions of grateful pleasure, the poor woman moved to get me a chair# ut, as & saved her the trou le, she usied herself with stirring the fire, and adding a few more sticks to the decaying em ers# and then, taking her well-used Bi le from the shelf, dusted it carefully, and gave it me. 0n my asking if there was any particular part she should like me to read, she answered1 6%ell, (iss Grey, if it*s all the same to you, & should like to hear that chapter in the -irst )pistle of 't. 5ohn, that says, ?God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.@* %ith a little searching, & found these words in the fourth chapter. %hen & came to the seventh verse she interrupted me, and, with needless apologies for such a li erty, desired me to read it very slowly, that she might take it all in, and dwell on every word# hoping & would e+cuse her, as she was ut a 6simple ody.* 6The wisest person,* & replied, 6might think over each of these verses for an hour, and e all the etter for it# and & would rather read them slowly than not.* "ccordingly, & finished the chapter as slowly as need e, and at the same time as impressively as & could# my auditor listened most attentively all the while, and sincerely thanked me when & had done. & sat still a out half a minute to give her time to reflect upon it# when, somewhat to my surprise, she roke the pause y asking me how & liked (r. %eston; 6& don*t know,* & replied, a little startled y the suddenness of the $uestion# 6& think he preaches very well.* 6"y, he does so# and talks well too.* 68oes he;* 6.e does. (ay e, you haven*t seen him1not to talk to him much, yet;* 69o, & never see any one to talk to1e+cept the young ladies of the .all.* 6"h# they*re nice, kind young ladies# ut they can*t talk as he does.* 6Then he comes to see you, 9ancy;* 6.e does, (iss# and &*se thankful for it. .e comes to see all us poor odies a deal ofter nor (aister Bligh, or th* ,ector ever did# an* it*s well he does, for he*s always welcome/ we can*t say as much for th* ,ector1there is 6at says they*re fair feared on him. %hen he comes into a house, they say he*s sure to find summut wrong, and egin a-calling *em as soon as he crosses th* doorstuns/ ut

may e he thinks it his duty like to tell *em what*s wrong. "nd very oft he comes o* purpose to reprove folk for not coming to church, or not kneeling an* standing when other folk does, or going to the (ethody chapel, or summut o* that sort/ ut & can*t say *at he ever fund much fault wi* me. .e came to see me once or twice, afore (aister %eston come, when & was so ill trou led in my mind# and as & had only very poor health esides, & made old to send for him1and he came right enough. & was sore distressed, (iss Grey1thank God, it*s owered now1 ut when & took my Bi le, & could get no comfort of it at all. That very chapter 6at you*ve just een reading trou led me as much as aught1?.e that loveth not, knoweth not God.@ &t seemed fearsome to me# for & felt that & loved neither God nor man as & should do, and could not, if & tried ever so. "nd th* chapter afore, where it says,1?.e that is orn of God cannot commit sin.@ "nd another place where it says,1?!ove is the fulfilling of the !aw.@ "nd many, many others, (iss/ & should fair weary you out, if & was to tell them all. But all seemed to condemn me, and to show me 6at & was not in the right way# and as & knew not how to get into it, & sent our Bill to eg (aister .atfield to e as kind as look in on me some day and when he came, & telled him all my trou les.*

+An# %h"t #i# he s"y, !"ncy-.

6%hy, (iss, he seemed to scorn me. & might e mista*en1 ut he like gave a sort of a whistle, and & saw a it of a smile on his face# and he said, ?0h, it*s all stuff7 You*ve een among the (ethodists, my good woman.@ But & telled him &*d never een near the (ethodies. "nd then he said,1?%ell,@ says he, ?you must come to church, where you*ll hear the 'criptures properly e+plained, instead of sitting poring over your Bi le at home.@ 6But & telled him & always used coming to church when & had my health# ut this very cold winter weather & hardly durst venture so far1and me so ad wi* th* rheumatic and all. 6But he says, ?&t*ll do your rheumati3 good to ho le to church/ there*s nothing like e+ercise for the rheumati3. You can walk a out the house well enough# why can*t you walk to church; The fact is,@ says he, ?you*re getting too fond of your ease. &t*s always easy to find e+cuses for shirking one*s duty.@ 6But then, you know, (iss Grey, it wasn*t so. .owever, & telled him &*d try. ?But please, sir,@ says &, ?if & do go to church, what the etter shall & e; & want to have my sins lotted out, and to feel that they are remem ered no more against me, and that the love of God is shed a road in my heart# and if & can get no good y reading my Bi le an* saying my prayers at home, what good shall & get y going to church;@* 6?The church,@ says he, ?is the place appointed y God for .is worship. &t*s your duty to go there as often as you can. &f you want comfort, you must seek it in the path of duty,@1an* a deal more he said, ut & cannot remem er all his fine words. .owever, it all came to this, that & was to come to church as oft as ever & could, and ring my prayer- ook with me, an* read up all the sponsers after the

clerk, an* stand, an* kneel, an* sit, an* do all as & should, and take the !ord*s 'upper at every opportunity, an* hearken his sermons, and (aister Bligh*s, an* it *ud e all right/ if & went on doing my duty, & should get a lessing at last. 6?But if you get no comfort that way,@ says he, ?it*s all up.@ 6?Then, sir,@ says &, ?should you think &*m a repro ate;@ 6?%hy,@ says he1he says, ?if you do your est to get to heaven and can*t manage it, you must e one of those that seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not e a le.@ 6"n* then he asked me if &*d seen any of the ladies o* th* .all a out that mornin*# so & telled him where & had seen the young misses go on th* (oss !ane# 1an* he kicked my poor cat right across th* floor, an* went after *em as gay as a lark/ ut & was very sad. That last word o* his fair sunk into my heart, an* lay there like a lump o* lead, till & was weary to ear it. 6.owsever, & follered his advice/ & thought he meant it all for th* est, though he had a $ueer way with him. But you know, (iss, he*s rich an* young, and such like cannot right understand the thoughts of a poor old woman such as me. But, howsever, & did my est to do all as he ade me1 ut may e &*m plaguing you, (iss, wi* my chatter.* 60h, no, 9ancy7 Go on, and tell me all.* 6%ell, my rheumati3 got etter1& know not whether wi* going to church or not, ut one frosty 'unday & got this cold i* my eyes. Th* inflammation didn*t come on all at once like, ut it y it1 ut & wasn*t going to tell you a out my eyes, & was talking a out my trou le o* mind#1and to tell the truth, (iss Grey, & don*t think it was anyways eased y coming to church1nought to speak on, at least/ & like got my health etter# ut that didn*t mend my soul. & hearkened and hearkened the ministers, and read an* read at my prayer- ook# ut it was all like sounding rass and a tinkling cym al/ the sermons & couldn*t understand, an* th* prayer- ook only served to show me how wicked & was, that & could read such good words an* never e no etter for it, and oftens feel it a sore la our an* a heavy task eside, instead of a lessing and a privilege as all good =hristians does. &t seemed like as all were arren an* dark to me. "nd then, them dreadful words, ?(any shall seek to enter in, and shall not e a le.@ They like as they fair dried up my sperrit. 6But one 'unday, when (aister .atfield gave out a out the sacrament, & noticed where he said, ?&f there e any of you that cannot $uiet his own conscience, ut re$uireth further comfort or counsel, let him come to me, or some other discreet and learned minister of God*s word, and open his grief7@ 'o ne+t 'unday morning, afore service, & just looked into the vestry, an* egan atalking to th* ,ector again. & hardly could fashion to take such a li erty, ut & thought when my soul was at stake & shouldn*t stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn*t time to attend to me then. 6?"nd, indeed,@ says he, ?&*ve nothing to say to you ut what &*ve said efore. Take the sacrament, of course, and go on doing your duty# and if that won*t serve you, nothing will. 'o don*t other me any more.@

6'o then, & went away. But & heard (aister %eston1(aister %eston was there, (iss1this was his first 'unday at .orton, you know, an* he was i* th* vestry in his surplice, helping th* ,ector on with his gown1* 6Yes, 9ancy.* 6"nd & heard him ask (aister .atfield who & was, an* he says, ?0h, she*s a canting old fool.@ 6"nd & was very ill grieved, (iss Grey# ut & went to my seat, and & tried to do my duty as aforetime/ ut & like got no peace. "n* & even took the sacrament# ut & felt as though & were eating and drinking to my own damnation all th* time. 'o & went home, sorely trou led. 6But ne+t day, afore &*d gotten fettled up1for indeed, (iss, &*d no heart to sweeping an* fettling, an* washing pots# so & sat me down i* th* muck1who should come in ut (aister %eston7 & started siding stuff then, an* sweeping an* doing# and & e+pected he*d egin a-calling me for my idle ways, as (aister .atfield would a* done# ut & was mista*en/ he only id me good-mornin* like, in a $uiet dacent way. 'o & dusted him a chair, an* fettled up th* fireplace a it# ut & hadn*t forgotten th* ,ector*s words, so says &, ?& wonder, sir, you should give yourself that trou le, to come so far to see a 6canting old fool,* such as me.@ 6.e seemed taken a ack at that# ut he would fain persuade me 6at the ,ector was only in jest# and when that wouldn*t do, he says, ?%ell, 9ancy, you shouldn*t think so much a out it/ (r. .atfield was a little out of humour just then/ you know we*re none of us perfect1even (oses spoke unadvisedly with his lips. But now sit down a minute, if you can spare the time, and tell me all your dou ts and fears# and &*ll try to remove them.@ 6'o & sat me down anent him. .e was $uite a stranger, you know, (iss Grey, and even younger nor (aister .atfield, & elieve# and & had thought him not so pleasant-looking as him, and rather a it crossish, at first, to look at# ut he spake so civil like1and when th* cat, poor thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a it of a smile/ so & thought that was a good sign# for once, when she did so to th* ,ector, he knocked her off, like as it might e in scorn and anger, poor thing. But you can*t e+pect a cat to know manners like a =hristian, you know, (iss Grey.*

+!o5 o& course not, !"ncy: But %h"t #i# 0r: /eston s"y then-.
6.e said nought# ut he listened to me as steady an* patient as could e, an* never a it o* scorn a out him# so & went on, an* telled him all, just as &*ve telled you1an* more too. 6?%ell,@ says he, ?(r. .atfield was $uite right in telling you to persevere in doing your duty# ut in advising you to go to church and attend to the service, and so on, he didn*t mean that was the whole of a =hristian*s duty/ he only thought you might there learn what more was to e done, and e led to take delight in those e+ercises, instead of finding them a task and a urden. "nd if

you had asked him to e+plain those words that trou le you so much, & think he would have told you, that if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not e a le, it is their own sins that hinder them# just as a man with a large sack on his ack might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find it impossi le to do so unless he would leave his sack ehind him. But you, 9ancy, & dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw aside, if you knew how;@ 6?&ndeed, sir, you speak truth,@ said &. 6?%ell,@ says he, ?you know the first and great commandment1and the second, which is like unto it1on which two commandments hang all the law and the prophets; You say you cannot love God# ut it strikes me that if you rightly consider who and what .e is, you cannot help it. .e is your father, your est friend/ every lessing, everything good, pleasant, or useful, comes from .im# and everything evil, everything you have reason to hate, to shun, or to fear, comes from 'atan1.is enemy as well as ours. "nd for this cause was God manifest in the flesh, that .e might destroy the works of the 8evil/ in one word, God is love# and the more of love we have within us, the nearer we are to .im and the more of .is spirit we possess.@ 6?%ell, sir,@ & said, ?if & can always think on these things, & think & might well love God/ ut how can & love my neigh ours, when they ve+ me, and e so contrary and sinful as some on *em is;@ 6?&t may seem a hard matter,@ says he, ?to love our neigh ours, who have so much of what is evil a out them, and whose faults so often awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves# ut remem er that .e made them, and .e loves them# and whosoever loveth him that egat, loveth him that is egotten also. "nd if God so loveth us, that .e gave .is only egotten 'on to die for us, we ought also to love one another. But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who do not care for you, you can at least try to do to them as you would they should do unto you/ you can endeavour to pity their failings and e+cuse their offences, and to do all the good you can to those a out you. "nd if you accustom yourself to this, 9ancy, the very effort itself will make you love them in some degree1to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness would eget in them, though they might have little else that is good a out them. &f we love God and wish to serve .im, let us try to e like .im, to do .is work, to la our for .is glory1which is the good of man1to hasten the coming of .is kingdom, which is the peace and happiness of all the world/ however powerless we may seem to e, in doing all the good we can through life, the hum lest of us may do much towards it/ and let us dwell in love, that .e may dwell in us and we in .im. The more happiness we estow, the more we shall receive, even here# and the greater will e our reward in heaven when we rest from our la ours.@ & elieve, (iss, them is his very words, for &*ve thought *em ower many a time. "n* then he took that Bi le, an* read its here and there, an* e+plained *em as clear as the day/ and it seemed like as a new light roke in on my soul# an* & felt fair aglow a out my heart, an* only wished poor Bill an* all the world could ha* een there, an* heard it all, and rejoiced wi* me.

6"fter he was gone, .annah ,ogers, one o* th* neigh ours, came in and wanted me to help her to wash. & telled her & couldn*t just then, for & hadn*t set on th* potaties for th* dinner, nor washed up th* reakfast stuff yet. 'o then she egan a-calling me for my nasty idle ways. & was a little it ve+ed at first, ut & never said nothing wrong to her/ & only telled her like all in a $uiet way, *at &*d had th* new parson to see me# ut &*d get done as $uick as ever & could, an* then come an* help her. 'o then she softened down# and my heart like as it warmed towards her, an* in a it we was very good friends. "n* so it is, (iss Grey, ?a soft answer turneth away wrath# ut grievous words stir up anger.@ &t isn*t only in them you speak to, ut in yourself.* 6<ery true, 9ancy, if we could always remem er it.* 6"y, if we could7* 6"nd did (r. %eston ever come to see you again;* 6Yes, many a time# and since my eyes has een so ad, he*s sat an* read to me y the half-hour together/ ut you know, (iss, he has other folks to see, and other things to do1God less him7 "n* that ne+t 'unday he preached such a sermon7 .is te+t was, ?=ome unto me all ye that la our and are heavy laden, and & will give you rest,@ and them two lessed verses that follows. You wasn*t there, (iss, you was with your friends then1 ut it made me so happy7 "nd & am happy now, thank God7 an* & take a pleasure, now, in doing little its o* jo s for my neigh ours1such as a poor old ody *at*s half lind can do# and they take it kindly of me, just as he said. You see, (iss, &*m knitting a pair o* stockings now# 1they*re for Thomas 5ackson/ he*s a $ueerish old ody, an* we*ve had many a out at threaping, one anent t*other# an* at times we*ve differed sorely. 'o & thought & couldn*t do etter nor knit him a pair o* warm stockings# an* &*ve felt to like him a deal etter, poor old man, sin* & egan. &t*s turned out just as (aister %eston said.* 6%ell, &*m very glad to see you so happy, 9ancy, and so wise/ ut & must go now# & shall e wanted at the .all,* said &# and idding her good- ye, & departed, promising to come again when & had time, and feeling nearly as happy as herself. "t another time & went to read to a poor la ourer who was in the last stage of consumption. The young ladies had een to see him, and somehow a promise of reading had een e+tracted from them# ut it was too much trou le, so they egged me to do it instead. & went, willingly enough# and there too & was gratified with the praises of (r. %eston, oth from the sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great comfort and enefit from the visits of the new parson, who fre$uently came to see him, and was 6another guess sort of man* to (r. .atfield# who, efore the other*s arrival at .orton, had now and then paid him a visit# on which occasions he would always insist upon having the cottage-door kept open, to admit the fresh air for his own convenience, without considering how it might injure the sufferer# and having opened his prayer- ook and hastily read over a part of the 'ervice for the 'ick, would hurry away again/ if he did not stay to administer some harsh re uke to the afflicted wife, or to make some

thoughtless, not to say heartless, o servation, rather calculated to increase than diminish the trou les of the suffering pair. 6%hereas,* said the man, 6(aister %eston *ull pray with me $uite in a different fashion, an* talk to me as kind as owt# an* oft read to me too, an* sit eside me just like a rother.* 65ust for all the world7* e+claimed his wife# 6an* a out a three wik sin*, when he seed how poor 5em shivered wi* cold, an* what pitiful fires we kept, he a+ed if wer stock of coals was nearly done. & telled him it was, an* we was ill set to get more/ ut you know, mum, & didn*t think o* him helping us# ut, howsever, he sent us a sack o* coals ne+t day# an* we*ve had good fires ever sin*/ and a great lessing it is, this winter time. But that*s his way, (iss Grey/ when he comes into a poor ody*s house a-seein* sick folk, he like notices what they most stand i* need on# an* if he thinks they can*t readily get it therseln, he never says nowt a out it, ut just gets it for *em. "n* it isn*t every ody *at *ud do that, *at has as little as he has/ for you know, mum, he*s nowt at all to live on ut what he gets fra* th* ,ector, an* that*s little enough they say.* & remem ered then, with a species of e+ultation, that he had fre$uently een styled a vulgar rute y the amia le (iss (urray, ecause he wore a silver watch, and clothes not $uite so right and fresh as (r. .atfield*s. &n returning to the !odge & felt very happy, and thanked God that & had now something to think a out# something to dwell on as a relief from the weary monotony, the lonely drudgery, of my present life/ for & was lonely. 9ever, from month to month, from year to year, e+cept during my rief intervals of rest at home, did & see one creature to whom & could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope of sympathy, or even comprehension/ never one, unless it were poor 9ancy Brown, with whom & could enjoy a single moment of real social intercourse, or whose conversation was calculated to render me etter, wiser, or happier than efore# or who, as far as & could see, could e greatly enefited y mine. (y only companions had een unamia le children, and ignorant, wrong-headed girls# from whose fatiguing folly, un roken solitude was often a relief most earnestly desired and dearly pri3ed. But to e restricted to such associates was a serious evil, oth in its immediate effects and the conse$uences that were likely to ensue. 9ever a new idea or stirring thought came to me from without# and such as rose within me were, for the most part, misera ly crushed at once, or doomed to sicken or fade away, ecause they could not see the light. .a itual associates are known to e+ercise a great influence over each other*s minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever efore our eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, al eit against our will, slowly, gradually, impercepti ly, perhaps, to act and speak as they do. & will not presume to say how far this irresisti le power of assimilation e+tends# ut if one civilised man were doomed to pass a do3en years amid a race of intracta le savages, unless he had power to improve them, & greatly $uestion whether, at the close of that period, he would not have ecome, at least, a ar arian himself.

"nd &, as & could not make my young companions etter, feared e+ceedingly that they would make me worse1would gradually ring my feelings, ha its, capacities, to the level of their own# without, however, imparting to me their lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity. "lready, & seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting# and & trem led lest my very moral perceptions should ecome deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong confounded, and all my etter faculties e sunk, at last, eneath the aneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth were gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven# and thus it was that (r. %eston rose at length upon me, appearing like the morning star in my hori3on, to save me from the fear of utter darkness# and & rejoiced that & had now a su ject for contemplation that was a ove me, not eneath. & was glad to see that all the world was not made up of Bloomfields, (urrays, .atfields, "sh ys, Ac.# and that human e+cellence was not a mere dream of the imagination. %hen we hear a little good and no harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine more/ in short, it is needless to analyse all my thoughts# ut 'unday was now ecome a day of peculiar delight to me 2& was now almost roken-in to the ack corner in the carriage4, for & liked to hear him1and & liked to see him, too# though & knew he was not handsome, or even what is called agreea le, in outward aspect# ut, certainly, he was not ugly. &n stature he was a little, a very little, a ove the middle si3e# the outline of his face would e pronounced too s$uare for eauty, ut to me it announced decision of character# his dark rown hair was not carefully curled, like (r. .atfield*s, ut simply rushed aside over a road white forehead# the eye rows, & suppose, were too projecting, ut from under those dark rows there gleamed an eye of singular power, rown in colour, not large, and somewhat deep-set, ut strikingly rilliant, and full of e+pression# there was character, too, in the mouth, something that espoke a man of firm purpose and an ha itual thinker# and when he smiled1 ut & will not speak of that yet, for, at the time & mention, & had never seen him smile/ and, indeed, his general appearance did not impress me with the idea of a man given to such a rela+ation, nor of such an individual as the cottagers descri ed him. & had early formed my opinion of him# and, in spite of (iss (urray*s o jurgations/ was fully convinced that he was a man of strong sense, firm faith, and ardent piety, ut thoughtful and stern/ and when & found that, to his other good $ualities, was added that of true enevolence and gentle, considerate kindness, the discovery, perhaps, delighted me the more, as & had not een prepared to e+pect it.

CHAPTER 6IITHE SH /ER The ne+t visit & paid to 9ancy Brown was in the second week in (arch/ for, though & had many spare minutes during the day, & seldom could look upon an hour as entirely my own# since, where everything was left to the caprices of (iss (atilda and her sister, there could e no order or regularity. %hatever occupation & chose, when not actually usied a out them or their concerns, & had, as it were, to keep my loins girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my

hand# for not to e immediately forthcoming when called for, was regarded as a grave and ine+cusa le offence/ not only y my pupils and their mother, ut y the very servant, who came in reathless haste to call me, e+claiming, 6You*re to go to the schoolroom directly, mum, the young ladies is waiting77* =lima+ of horror7 actually waiting for their governess777 But this time & was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself# for (atilda was preparing for a long ride, and ,osalie was dressing for a dinner-party at !ady "sh y*s/ so & took the opportunity of repairing to the widow*s cottage, where & found her in some an+iety a out her cat, which had een a sent all day. & comforted her with as many anecdotes of that animal*s roving propensities as & could recollect. 6&*m feared o* th* gamekeepers,* said she/ 6that*s all *at & think on. &f th* young gentlemen had een at home, & should a* thought they*d een setting their dogs at her, an* worried her, poor thing, as they did many a poor thing*s cat# ut & haven*t that to e feared on now.* 9ancy*s eyes were etter, ut still far from well/ she had een trying to make a 'unday shirt for her son, ut told me she could only ear to do a little it at it now and then, so that it progressed ut slowly, though the poor lad wanted it sadly. 'o & proposed to help her a little, after & had read to her, for & had plenty of time that evening, and need not return till dusk. 'he thankfully accepted the offer. 6"n* you*ll e a it o* company for me too, (iss,* said she# 6& like as & feel lonesome without my cat.* But when & had finished reading, and done the half of a seam, with 9ancy*s capacious rass thim le fitted on to my finger y means of a roll of paper, & was distur ed y the entrance of (r. %eston, with the identical cat in his arms. & now saw that he could smile, and very pleasantly too. 6&*ve done you a piece of good service, 9ancy,* he egan/ then seeing me, he acknowledged my presence y a slight ow. & should have een invisi le to .atfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. 6&*ve delivered your cat,* he continued, 6from the hands, or rather the gun, of (r. (urray*s gamekeeper.* 6God less you, sir7* cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for joy as she received her favourite from his arms. 6Take care of it,* said he, 6and don*t let it go near the ra it-warren, for the gamekeeper swears he*ll shoot it if he sees it there again/ he would have done so to-day, if & had not een in time to stop him. & elieve it is raining, (iss Grey,* added he, more $uietly, o serving that & had put aside my work, and was preparing to depart. 68on*t let me distur you1& shan*t stay two minutes.* 6You*ll oth stay while this shower gets owered,* said 9ancy, as she stirred the fire, and placed another chair eside it# 6what7 there*s room for all.* 6& can see etter here, thank you, 9ancy,* replied &, taking my work to the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain unmolested, while she got a rush to remove the cat*s hairs from (r. %eston*s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat its supper, usily talking all the time/ now thanking her clerical friend for what he had done# now wondering how the cat had found out the warren# and now lamenting the pro a le conse$uences of such a

discovery. .e listened with a $uiet, good-natured smile, and at length took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, ut repeated that he did not mean to stay. 6& have another place to go to,* said he, 6and & see* 2glancing at the ook on the ta le4 6someone else has een reading to you.* 6Yes, sir# (iss Grey has een as kind as read me a chapter# an* now she*s helping me with a shirt for our Bill1 ut &*m feared she*ll e cold there. %on*t you come to th* fire, (iss;* 69o, thank you, 9ancy, &*m $uite warm. & must go as soon as this shower is over.* 60h, (iss7 You said you could stop while dusk7* cried the provoking old woman, and (r. %eston sei3ed his hat. 69ay, sir,* e+claimed she, 6pray don*t go now, while it rains so fast.* 6But it strikes me &*m keeping your visitor away from the fire.* 69o, you*re not, (r. %eston,* replied &, hoping there was no harm in a falsehood of that description.

+!o, sure'. crie# !"ncy: +/h"t, there.s lots o. roo,'.

6(iss Grey,* said he, half-jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to change the present su ject, whether he had anything particular to say or not, 6& wish you would make my peace with the s$uire, when you see him. .e was y when & rescued 9ancy*s cat, and did not $uite approve of the deed. & told him & thought he might etter spare all his ra its than she her cat, for which audacious assertion he treated me to some rather ungentlemanly language# and & fear & retorted a trifle too warmly.* 60h, lawful sir7 & hope you didn*t fall out wi* th* maister for sake o* my cat7 he cannot ide answering again1can th* maister.* 60h7 it*s no matter, 9ancy/ & don*t care a out it, really# & said nothing very uncivil# and & suppose (r. (urray is accustomed to use rather strong language when he*s heated.* 6"y, sir/ it*s a pity.* 6"nd now, & really must go. & have to visit a place a mile eyond this# and you would not have me to return in the dark/ esides, it has nearly done raining now 1so good-evening, 9ancy. Good-evening, (iss Grey.* 6Good-evening, (r. %eston# ut don*t depend upon me for making your peace with (r. (urray, for & never see him1to speak to.* 68on*t you# it can*t e helped then,* replied he, in dolorous resignation/ then, with a peculiar half-smile, he added, 6But never mind# & imagine the s$uire has more to apologise for than &#* and left the cottage. & went on with my sewing as long as & could see, and then ade 9ancy goodevening# checking her too lively gratitude y the undenia le assurance that & had

only done for her what she would have done for me, if she had een in my place and & in hers. & hastened ack to .orton !odge, where, having entered the schoolroom, & found the tea-ta le all in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and (iss (atilda in a most ferocious humour. 6(iss Grey, whatever have you een a out; &*ve had tea half an hour ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone7 & wish you would come in sooner7* 6&*ve een to see 9ancy Brown. & thought you would not e ack from your ride.* 6.ow could & ride in the rain, & should like to know. That damned pelting shower was ve+atious enough1coming on when & was just in full swing/ and then to come and find no ody in to tea7 and you know & can*t make the tea as & like it.* 6& didn*t think of the shower,* replied & 2and, indeed, the thought of its driving her home had never entered my head4. 69o, of course# you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought of other people.* & ore her coarse reproaches with astonishing e$uanimity, even with cheerfulness# for & was sensi le that & had done more good to 9ancy Brown than harm to her/ and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn tea, and a charm to the otherwise unsightly ta le# and1& had almost said1to (iss (atilda*s unamia le face. But she soon etook herself to the sta les, and left me to the $uiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.

CHAPTER 6IIITHE PRI0R SES (iss (urray now always went twice to church, for she so loved admiration that she could not ear to lose a single opportunity of o taining it# and she was so sure of it wherever she showed herself, that, whether .arry (eltham and (r. Green were there or not, there was certain to e some ody present who would not e insensi le to her charms, esides the ,ector, whose official capacity generally o liged him to attend. :sually, also, if the weather permitted, oth she and her sister would walk home# (atilda, ecause she hated the confinement of the carriage# she, ecause she disliked the privacy of it, and enjoyed the company that generally enlivened the first mile of the journey in walking from the church to (r. Green*s park-gates/ near which commenced the private road to .orton !odge, which lay in the opposite direction, while the highway conducted in a straightforward course to the still more distant mansion of 'ir .ugh (eltham. Thus there was always a chance of eing accompanied, so far, either y .arry (eltham, with or without (iss (eltham, or (r. Green, with perhaps one or oth of his sisters, and any gentlemen visitors they might have. %hether & walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents, depended upon their own capricious will/ if they chose to 6take* me, & went# if, for reasons

est known to themselves, they chose to go alone, & took my seat in the carriage. & liked walking etter, ut a sense of reluctance to o trude my presence on anyone who did not desire it, always kept me passive on these and similar occasions# and & never in$uired into the causes of their varying whims. &ndeed, this was the est policy1for to su mit and o lige was the governess*s part, to consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. But when & did walk, the first half of journey was generally a great nuisance to me. "s none of the eforementioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was disagreea le to walk eside them, as if listening to what they said, or wishing to e thought one of them, while they talked over me, or across# and if their eyes, in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it seemed as if they looked on vacancy1as if they either did not see me, or were very desirous to make it appear so. &t was disagreea le, too, to walk ehind, and thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority# for, in truth, & considered myself pretty nearly as good as the est of them, and wished them to know that & did so, and not to imagine that & looked upon myself as a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well to walk eside such fine ladies and gentlemen as they were1though her young ladies might choose to have her with them, and even condescend to converse with her when no etter company were at hand. Thus1& am almost ashamed to confess it1 ut indeed & gave myself no little trou le in my endeavours 2if & did keep up with them4 to appear perfectly unconscious or regardless of their presence, as if & were wholly a sor ed in my own reflections, or the contemplation of surrounding o jects# or, if & lingered ehind, it was some ird or insect, some tree or flower, that attracted my attention, and having duly e+amined that, & would pursue my walk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had idden adieu to their companions and turned off into the $uiet private road. 0ne such occasion & particularly well remem er# it was a lovely afternoon a out the close of (arch# (r. Green and his sisters had sent their carriage ack empty, in order to enjoy the right sunshine and almy air in a socia le walk home along with their visitors, =aptain 'ome ody and !ieutenant 'ome odyelse 2a couple of military fops4, and the (isses (urray, who, of course, contrived to join them. 'uch a party was highly agreea le to ,osalie# ut not finding it e$ually suita le to my taste, & presently fell ack, and egan to otanise and entomologise along the green anks and udding hedges, till the company was considera ly in advance of me, and & could hear the sweet song of the happy lark# then my spirit of misanthropy egan to melt away eneath the soft, pure air and genial sunshine# ut sad thoughts of early childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a righter future lot, arose instead. "s my eyes wandered over the steep anks covered with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted y udding hedges, & longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hill-sides of home/ the rown moorlands, of course, were out of the $uestion. 'uch a discovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no dou t# ut that was one of my greatest enjoyments now. "t length & descried, high up etween the twisted roots of an oak, three lovely

primroses, peeping so sweetly from their hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight# ut they grew so high a ove me, that & tried in vain to gather one or two, to dream over and to carry with me/ & could not reach them unless & clim ed the ank, which & was deterred from doing y hearing a footstep at that moment ehind me, and was, therefore, a out to turn away, when & was startled y the words, 6"llow me to gather them for you, (iss Grey,* spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. &mmediately the flowers were gathered, and in my hand. &t was (r. %eston, of course1who else would trou le himself to do so much for me; 6& thanked him# whether warmly or coldly, & cannot tell/ ut certain & am that & did not e+press half the gratitude & felt. &t was foolish, perhaps, to feel any gratitude at all# ut it seemed to me, at that moment, as if this were a remarka le instance of his good-nature/ an act of kindness, which & could not repay, ut never should forget/ so utterly unaccustomed was & to receive such civilities, so little prepared to e+pect them from anyone within fifty miles of .orton !odge. Yet this did not prevent me from feeling a little uncomforta le in his presence# and & proceeded to follow my pupils at a much $uicker pace than efore# though, perhaps, if (r. %eston had taken the hint, and let me pass without another word, & might have repeated it an hour after/ ut he did not. " somewhat rapid walk for me was ut an ordinary pace for him. 6Your young ladies have left you alone,* said he. 6Yes, they are occupied with more agreea le company.* 6Then don*t trou le yourself to overtake them.* & slackened my pace# ut ne+t moment regretted having done so/ my companion did not speak# and & had nothing in the world to say, and feared he might e in the same predicament. "t length, however, he roke the pause y asking, with a certain $uiet a ruptness peculiar to himself, if & liked flowers. 6Yes# very much,* & answered, 6wild-flowers especially.* 6& like wild-flowers,* said he# 6others & don*t care a out, ecause & have no particular associations connected with them1e+cept one or two. %hat are your favourite flowers;* 6Primroses, lue ells, and heath- lossoms.*

+!ot 4iolets-.
69o# ecause, as you say, & have no particular associations connected with them# for there are no sweet violets among the hills and valleys round my home.* 6&t must e a great consolation to you to have a home, (iss Grey,* o served my companion after a short pause/ 6however remote, or however seldom visited, still it is something to look to.* 6&t is so much that & think & could not live without it,* replied &, with an enthusiasm of which & immediately repented# for & thought it must have sounded essentially silly.

60h, yes, you could,* said he, with a thoughtful smile. 6The ties that ind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than anyone can who has not felt how roughly they may e pulled without reaking. You might e misera le without a home, ut even you could live# and not so misera ly as you suppose. The human heart is like india-ru er# a little swells it, ut a great deal will not urst it. &f ?little more than nothing will distur it, little less than all things will suffice@ to reak it. "s in the outer mem ers of our frame, there is a vital power inherent in itself that strengthens it against e+ternal violence. )very low that shakes it will serve to harden it against a future stroke# as constant la our thickens the skin of the hand, and strengthens its muscles instead of wasting them away/ so that a day of arduous toil, that might e+coriate a lady*s palm, would make no sensi le impression on that of a hardy ploughman. 6& speak from e+perience1partly my own. There was a time when & thought as you do1at least, & was fully persuaded that home and its affections were the only things that made life tolera le/ that, if deprived of these, e+istence would ecome a urden hard to e endured# ut now & have no home1unless you would dignify my two hired rooms at .orton y such a name#1and not twelve months ago & lost the last and dearest of my early friends# and yet, not only & live, ut & am not wholly destitute of hope and comfort, even for this life/ though & must acknowledge that & can seldom enter even an hum le cottage at the close of day, and see its inha itants peacea ly gathered around their cheerful hearth, without a feeling almost of envy at their domestic enjoyment.* 6You don*t know what happiness lies efore you yet,* said &/ 6you are now only in the commencement of your journey.* 6The est of happiness,* replied he, 6is mine already1the power and the will to e useful.* %e now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted to a farm-house, where, & suppose, (r. %eston purposed to make himself 6useful#* for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to ponder his words as & continued my course alone. & had heard efore that he had lost his mother not many months efore he came. 'he then was the last and dearest of his early friends# and he had no home. & pitied him from my heart/ & almost wept for sympathy. "nd this, & thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so fre$uently clouded his row, and o tained for him the reputation of a morose and sullen disposition with the charita le (iss (urray and all her kin. 6But,* thought &, 6he is not so misera le as & should e under such a deprivation/ he leads an active life# and a wide field for useful e+ertion lies efore him. .e can make friends# and he can make a home too, if he pleases# and, dou tless, he will please some time. God grant the partner of that home may e worthy of his choice, and make it a happy one1such a home as he deserves to have7 "nd how delightful it would e to1* But no matter what & thought. & egan this ook with the intention of concealing nothing# that those who liked might have the enefit of perusing a fellow-creature*s heart/ ut we have some

thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to ehold, ut not our rother-men1not even the est and kindest amongst them. By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own a ode, and the (urrays had turned down the private road, whither & hastened to follow them. & found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on the respective merits of the two young officers# ut on seeing me ,osalie roke off in the middle of a sentence to e+claim, with malicious glee1 60h-ho, (iss Grey7 you*re come at last, are you; 9o wonder you lingered so long ehind# and no wonder you always stand up so vigorously for (r. %eston when & a use him. "h-ha7 & see it all now7* 69ow, come, (iss (urray, don*t e foolish,* said &, attempting a good-natured laugh# 6you know such nonsense can make no impression on me.* But she still went on talking such intolera le stuff1her sister helping her with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion1that & thought it necessary to say something in my own justification. 6%hat folly all this is7* & e+claimed. 6&f (r. %eston*s road happened to e the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to e+change a word or two in passing, what is there so remarka le in that; & assure you, & never spoke to him efore/ e+cept once.* 6%here; where; and when;* cried they eagerly. 6&n 9ancy*s cottage.* 6"h-ha7 you*ve met him there, have you;* e+claimed ,osalie, with e+ultant laughter. 6"h7 now, (atilda, &*ve found out why she*s so fond of going to 9ancy Brown*s7 'he goes there to flirt with (r. %eston.* 6,eally, that is not worth contradicting1& only saw him there once, & tell you1 and how could & know he was coming;* &rritated as & was at their foolish mirth and ve+atious imputations, the uneasiness did not continue long/ when they had had their laugh out, they returned again to the captain and lieutenant# and, while they disputed and commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled# the cause of it was $uickly forgotten, and & turned my thoughts into a pleasanter channel. Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the hall# and as & ascended the stairs to my own cham er, & had ut one thought within me/ my heart was filled to overflowing with one single earnest wish. .aving entered the room, and shut the door, & fell upon my knees and offered up a fervent ut not impetuous prayer/ 6Thy will e done,* & strove to say throughout# ut, 6-ather, all things are possi le with Thee, and may it e Thy will,* was sure to follow. That wish1that prayer1 oth men and women would have scorned me for16But, -ather, Thou wilt not despise7* & said, and felt that it was true. &t seemed to me that another*s welfare was at least as ardently implored for as my own# nay, even that was the principal o ject of my heart*s desire. & might have een deceiving myself# ut that idea gave me confidence to ask, and power to hope & did not ask in vain. "s for the primroses, & kept two of them in a glass in my room until they were completely withered, and

the housemaid threw them out# and the petals of the other & pressed etween the leaves of my Bi le1& have them still, and mean to keep them always.

CHAPTER 6I3THE RECT R The following day was as fine as the preceding one. 'oon after reakfast (iss (atilda, having galloped and lundered through a few unprofita le lessons, and vengea ly thumped the piano for an hour, in a terri le humour with oth me and it, ecause her mamma would not give her a holiday, had etaken herself to her favourite places of resort, the yards, the sta les, and the dog-kennels# and (iss (urray was gone forth to enjoy a $uiet ram le with a new fashiona le novel for her companion, leaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a watercolour drawing which & had promised to do for her, and which she insisted upon my finishing that day. "t my feet lay a little rough terrier. &t was the property of (iss (atilda# ut she hated the animal, and intended to sell it, alleging that it was $uite spoiled. &t was really an e+cellent dog of its kind# ut she affirmed it was fit for nothing, and had not even the sense to know its own mistress. The fact was she had purchased it when ut a small puppy, insisting at first that no one should touch it ut herself# ut soon ecoming tired of so helpless and trou lesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my entreaties to e allowed to take charge of it# and &, y carefully nursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had o tained its affections/ a reward & should have greatly valued, and looked upon as far outweighing all the trou le & had had with it, had not poor 'nap*s grateful feelings e+posed him to many a harsh word and many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in danger of eing 6put away* in conse$uence, or transferred to some rough, stonyhearted master. But how could & help it; & could not make the dog hate me y cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him y kindness. .owever, while & thus sat, working away with my pencil, (rs. (urray came, half-sailing, half- ustling, into the room. 6(iss Grey,* she egan,16dear7 how can you sit at your drawing such a day as this;* 2'he thought & was doing it for my own pleasure.4 6& wonder you don*t put on your onnet and go out with the young ladies.* 6& think, ma*am, (iss (urray is reading# and (iss (atilda is amusing herself with her dogs.* 6&f you would try to amuse (iss (atilda yourself a little more, & think she would not e driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs and horses and grooms, so much as she is# and if you would e a little more cheerful and conversa le with (iss (urray, she would not so often go wandering in the fields with a ook in her hand. .owever, & don*t want to ve+ you,* added she, seeing, & suppose, that my cheeks urned and my hand trem led with some unamia le emotion. 68o, pray, try not to e so touchy1there*s no speaking to you else. "nd tell me if you know where ,osalie is gone/ and why she likes to e so much alone;*

6'he says she likes to e alone when she has a new ook to read.* 6But why can*t she read it in the park or the garden;1why should she go into the fields and lanes; "nd how is it that that (r. .atfield so often finds her out; 'he told me last week he*d walked his horse y her side all up (oss !ane# and now &*m sure it was he & saw, from my dressing-room window, walking so riskly past the park-gates, and on towards the field where she so fre$uently goes. & wish you would go and see if she is there# and just gently remind her that it is not proper for a young lady of her rank and prospects to e wandering a out y herself in that manner, e+posed to the attentions of anyone that presumes to address her# like some poor neglected girl that has no park to walk in, and no friends to take care of her/ and tell her that her papa would e e+tremely angry if he knew of her treating (r. .atfield in the familiar manner that & fear she does# and1oh7 if you1if any governess had ut half a mother*s watchfulness1half a mother*s an+ious care, & should e saved this trou le# and you would see at once the necessity of keeping your eye upon her, and making your company agreea le to1 %ell, go1go# there*s no time to e lost,* cried she, seeing that & had put away my drawing materials, and was waiting in the doorway for the conclusion of her address. "ccording to her prognostications, & found (iss (urray in her favourite field just without the park# and, unfortunately, not alone# for the tall, stately figure of (r. .atfield was slowly sauntering y her side. .ere was a poser for me. &t was my duty to interrupt the tFte-G-tFte/ ut how was it to e done; (r. .atfield could not to e driven away y so insignificant person as &# and to go and place myself on the other side of (iss (urray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without noticing her companion, was a piece of rudeness & could not e guilty of/ neither had & the courage to cry aloud from the top of the field that she was wanted elsewhere. 'o & took the intermediate course of walking slowly ut steadily towards them# resolving, if my approach failed to scare away the eau, to pass y and tell (iss (urray her mamma wanted her. 'he certainly looked very charming as she strolled, lingering along under the udding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms over the parkpalings# with her closed ook in one hand, and in the other a graceful sprig of myrtle, which served her as a very pretty plaything# her right ringlets escaping profusely from her little onnet, and gently stirred y the ree3e, her fair cheek flushed with gratified vanity, her smiling lue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her admirer, now ga3ing downward at her myrtle sprig. But 'nap, running efore me, interrupted her in the midst of some half-pert, half-playful repartee, y catching hold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat# till (r. .atfield, with his cane, administered a resounding thwack upon the animal*s skull, and sent it yelping ack to me with a clamorous outcry that afforded the reverend gentleman great amusement/ ut seeing me so near, he thought, & suppose, he might as well e taking his departure# and, as & stooped to caress the dog, with

ostentatious pity to show my disapproval of his severity, & heard him say/ 6%hen shall & see you again, (iss (urray;* 6"t church, & suppose,* replied she, 6unless your usiness chances to ring you here again at the precise moment when & happen to e walking y.* 6& could always manage to have usiness here, if & knew precisely when and where to find you.* 6But if & would, & could not inform you, for & am so immethodical, & never can tell to-day what & shall do to-morrow.* 6Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,* said he, half jestingly and half in earnest, e+tending his hand for the sprig of myrtle. 69o, indeed, & shan*t.* 68o7 pray do7 & shall e the most misera le of men if you don*t. You cannot e so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so highly pri3ed7* pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it. By this time & stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently waiting his departure. 6There then7 take it and go,* said ,osalie. .e joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her lush and toss her head, ut with a little laugh that showed her displeasure was entirely affected# and then with a courteous salutation withdrew. 68id you ever see such a man, (iss Grey;* said she, turning to me# 6&*m so glad you came7 & thought & never should, get rid of him# and & was so terri ly afraid of papa seeing him.*

+H"s he been %ith you long-.

69o, not long, ut he*s so e+tremely impertinent/ and he*s always hanging a out, pretending his usiness or his clerical duties re$uire his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.* 6%ell, your mamma thinks you ought not to go eyond the park or garden without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and keep off all intruders. 'he descried (r. .atfield hurrying past the park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn1* 60h, mamma*s so tiresome7 "s if & couldn*t take care of myself. 'he othered me efore a out (r. .atfield# and & told her she might trust me/ & never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful man that ever reathed. & wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow, and implore me to e his wife, that & might just show her how mistaken she is in supposing that & could ever10h, it provokes me so7 To think that & could e such a fool as to fall in love7 &t is $uite eneath the dignity of a woman to do such a thing. !ove7 & detest the word7 "s

applied to one of our se+, & think it a perfect insult. " preference & might acknowledge# ut never for one like poor (r. .atfield, who has not seven hundred a year to less himself with. & like to talk to him, ecause he*s so clever and amusing1& wish 'ir Thomas "sh y were half as nice# esides, & must have some ody to flirt with, and no one else has the sense to come here# and when we go out, mamma won*t let me flirt with any ody ut 'ir Thomas1if he*s there# and if he*s not there, &*m ound hand and foot, for fear some ody should go and make up some e+aggerated story, and put it into his head that &*m engaged, or likely to e engaged, to some ody else# or, what is more pro a le, for fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and conclude that &*m not a fit wife for her e+cellent son/ as if the said son were not the greatest scamp in =hristendom# and as if any woman of common decency were not a world too good for him.* 6&s it really so, (iss (urray; and does your mamma know it, and yet wish you to marry him;* 6To e sure, she does7 'he knows more against him than & do, & elieve/ she keeps it from me lest & should e discouraged# not knowing how little & care a out such things. -or it*s no great matter, really/ he*ll e all right when he*s married, as mamma says# and reformed rakes make the est hus ands, every ody knows. & only wish he were not so ugly1that*s all & think a out/ ut then there*s no choice here in the country# and papa will not let us go to !ondon1* 6But & should think (r. .atfield would e far etter.* 6"nd so he would, if he were lord of "sh y Park1there*s not a dou t of it/ ut the fact is, & must have "sh y Park, whoever shares it with me.* 6But (r. .atfield thinks you like him all this time# you don*t consider how itterly he will e disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.* 69o, indeed7 &t will e a proper punishment for his presumption1for ever daring to think & could like him. & should enjoy nothing so much as lifting the veil from his eyes.* 6The sooner you do it the etter then.* 69o# & tell you, & like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn*t really think & like him. & take good care of that/ you don*t know how cleverly & manage. .e may presume to think he can induce me to like him# for which & shall punish him as he deserves.* 6%ell, mind you don*t give too much reason for such presumption1that*s all,* replied &. But all my e+hortations were in vain/ they only made her somewhat more solicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. 'he talked no more to me a out the ,ector# ut & could see that her mind, if not her heart, was fi+ed upon him still, and that she was intent upon o taining another interview/ for though, in compliance with her mother*s re$uest, & was now constituted the companion of her ram les for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes that lay in the nearest pro+imity to the road# and, whether she talked to

me or read the ook she carried in her hand, she kept continually pausing to look round her, or ga3e up the road to see if anyone was coming# and if a horseman trotted y, & could tell y her un$ualified a use of the poor e$uestrian, whoever he might e, that she hated him ecause he was not (r. .atfield. 6'urely,* thought &, 6she is not so indifferent to him as she elieves herself to e, or would have others to elieve her# and her mother*s an+iety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.* Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. 0n the afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking eside the park-palings in the memora le field, each furnished with a ook 2for & always took care to provide myself with something to e doing when she did not re$uire me to talk4, she suddenly interrupted my studies y e+claiming1 60h, (iss Grey7 do e so kind as to go and see (ark %ood, and take his wife half-a-crown from me1& should have given or sent it a week ago, ut $uite forgot. There7* said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking very fast169ever mind getting it out now, ut take the purse and give them what you like# & would go with you, ut & want to finish this volume. &*ll come and meet you when &*ve done it. Be $uick, will you1and1oh, wait# hadn*t you etter read to him a it; ,un to the house and get some sort of a good ook. "nything will do.* & did as & was desired# ut, suspecting something from her hurried manner and the suddenness of the re$uest, & just glanced ack efore & $uitted the field, and there was (r. .atfield a out to enter at the gate elow. By sending me to the house for a ook, she had just prevented my meeting him on the road. 69ever mind7* thought &, 6there*ll e no great harm done. Poor (ark will e glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good ook too# and if the ,ector does steal (iss ,osalie*s heart, it will only hum le her pride a little# and if they do get married at last, it will only save her from a worse fate# and she will e $uite a good enough partner for him, and he for her.* (ark %ood was the consumptive la ourer whom & mentioned efore. .e was now rapidly wearing away. (iss (urray, y her li erality, o tained literally the lessing of him that was ready to perish# for though the half-crown could e of very little service to him, he was glad of it for the sake of his wife and children, so soon to e widowed and fatherless. "fter & had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the comfort and edification of himself and his afflicted wife, & left them# ut & had not proceeded fifty yards efore & encountered (r. %eston, apparently on his way to the same a ode. .e greeted me in his usual $uiet, unaffected way, stopped to in$uire a out the condition of the sick man and his family, and with a sort of unconscious, rotherly disregard to ceremony took from my hand the ook out of which & had een reading, turned over its pages, made a few rief ut very sensi le remarks, and restored it# then told me a out some poor sufferer he had just een visiting, talked a little a out 9ancy Brown, made a few o servations upon my little rough friend the terrier, that was frisking at his feet, and finally upon the eauty of the weather, and departed.

& have omitted to give a detail of his words, from a notion that they would not interest the reader as they did me, and not ecause & have forgotten them. 9o# & remem er them well# for & thought them over and over again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, & know not how often# and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice, every flash of his $uick, rown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant, ut too transient smile. 'uch a confession will look very a surd, & fear/ ut no matter/ & have written it/ and they that read it will not know the writer. %hile & was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around, (iss (urray came hastening to meet me# her uoyant step, flushed cheek, and radiant smiles showing that she, too, was happy, in her own way. ,unning up to me, she put her arm through mine, and without waiting to recover reath, egan 169ow, (iss Grey, think yourself highly honoured, for &*m come to tell you my news efore &*ve reathed a word of it to anyone else.*

+/ell, %h"t is it-.

60h, such news7 &n the first place, you must know that (r. .atfield came upon me just after you were gone. & was in such a way for fear papa or mamma should see him# ut you know & couldn*t call you ack again, and so71oh, dear7 & can*t tell you all a out it now, for there*s (atilda, & see, in the park, and & must go and open my udget to her. But, however, .atfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeaka ly complimentary, and unprecedentedly tender1tried to e so, at least1he didn*t succeed very well in that, ecause it*s not his vein. &*ll tell you all he said another time.*

+But %h"t #i# you s"yI., ,ore intereste# in th"t-.

6&*ll tell you that, too, at some future period. & happened to e in a very good humour just then# ut, though & was complaisant and gracious enough, & took care not to compromise myself in any possi le way. But, however, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amia ility of temper his own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so far1what do you think;1he actually made me an offer7*

+An# you.
6& proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness e+pressed my astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my conduct to justify his e+pectations. You should have seen how his countenance fell7 .e went perfectly white in the face. & assured him that & esteemed him and all that, ut could not possi ly accede to his proposals# and if & did, papa and mamma could never e rought to give their consent.* 6?But if they could,@ said he, ?would yours e wanting;@

6?=ertainly, (r. .atfield,@ & replied, with a cool decision which $uelled all hope at once. 0h, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified he was1how crushed to the earth y his disappointment7 really, & almost pitied him myself. 60ne more desperate attempt, however, he made. "fter a silence of considera le duration, during which he struggled to e calm, and & to e grave1 for & felt a strong propensity to laugh1which would have ruined all1he said, with the ghost of a smile1?But tell me plainly, (iss (urray, if & had the wealth of 'ir .ugh (eltham, or the prospects of his eldest son, would you still refuse me; "nswer me truly, upon your honour.@ 6?=ertainly,@ said &. ?That would make no difference whatever.@ 6&t was a great lie, ut he looked so confident in his own attractions still, that & determined not to leave him one stone upon another. .e looked me full in the face# ut & kept my countenance so well that he could not imagine & was saying anything more than the actual truth. 6?Then it*s all over, & suppose,@ he said, looking as if he could have died on the spot with ve+ation and the intensity of his despair. But he was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so unspeaka ly, and there was &, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly impenetra le to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly cold and proud, he could not ut feel some resentment# and with singular itterness he egan1?& certainly did not e+pect this, (iss (urray. & might say something a out your past conduct, and the hopes you have led me to foster, ut & for ear, on condition1@ 6?9o conditions, (r. .atfield7@ said &, now truly indignant at his insolence. 6?Then let me eg it as a favour,@ he replied, lowering his voice at once, and taking a hum ler tone/ ?let me entreat that you will not mention this affair to anyone whatever. &f you will keep silence a out it, there need e no unpleasantness on either side1nothing, & mean, eyond what is $uite unavoida le/ for my own feelings & will endeavour to keep to myself, if & cannot annihilate them1& will try to forgive, if & cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. & will not suppose, (iss (urray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. & would not have you aware of it# ut if, in addition to the injury you have already done me1pardon me, ut, whether innocently or not, you have done it1and if you add to it y giving pu licity to this unfortunate affair, or naming it at all, you will find that & too can speak, and though you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my1@ 6.e stopped, ut he it his loodless lip, and looked so terri ly fierce that & was $uite frightened. .owever, my pride upheld me still, and & answered disdainfully# ?& do not know what motive you suppose & could have for naming it to anyone, (r. .atfield# ut if & were disposed to do so, you would not deter me y threats# and it is scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.@ 6?Pardon me, (iss (urray,@ said he, ?& have loved you so intensely1& do still adore you so deeply, that & would not willingly offend you# ut though & never have loved, and never can love any woman as & have loved you, it is e$ually

certain that & never was so ill-treated y any. 0n the contrary, & have always found your se+ the kindest and most tender and o liging of God*s creation, till now.@ 2Think of the conceited fellow saying that74 ?"nd the novelty and harshness of the lesson you have taught me to-day, and the itterness of eing disappointed in the only $uarter on which the happiness of my life depended, must e+cuse any appearance of asperity. &f my presence is disagreea le to you, (iss (urray,@ he said 2for & was looking a out me to show how little & cared for him, so he thought & was tired of him, & suppose41?if my presence is disagreea le to you, (iss (urray, you have only to promise me the favour & named, and & will relieve you at once. There are many ladies1some even in this parish1who would e delighted to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They would e naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has so completely estranged my heart from them and linded me to their attractions# and a single hint of the truth from me to one of these would e sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any other gentleman you or your mamma might design to entangle.@ 6?%hat do your mean, sir;@ said &, ready to stamp with passion. 6?& mean that this affair from eginning to end appears to me like a case of arrant flirtation, to say the least of it1such a case as you would find it rather inconvenient to have la3oned through the world/ especially with the additions and e+aggerations of your female rivals, who would e too glad to pu lish the matter, if & only gave them a handle to it. But & promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no word or sylla le that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my lips, provided you will1@ 6?%ell, well, & won*t mention it,@ said &. ?You may rely upon my silence, if that can afford you any consolation.@ 6?You promise it;@ 6?Yes,@ & answered# for & wanted to get rid of him now. 6?-arewell, then7@ said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone# and with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and went away/ longing, no dou t, to get home, that he might shut himself up in his study and cry1if he doesn*t urst into tears efore he gets there.* 6But you have roken your promise already,* said &, truly horrified at her perfidy. 60h7 it*s only to you# & know you won*t repeat it.* 6=ertainly, & shall not/ ut you say you are going to tell your sister# and she will tell your rothers when they come home, and Brown immediately, if you do not tell her yourself# and Brown will la3on it, or e the means of la3oning it, throughout the country.* 69o, indeed, she won*t. %e shall not tell her at all, unless it e under the promise of the strictest secrecy.*

6But how can you e+pect her to keep her promises etter than her more enlightened mistress;* 6%ell, well, she shan*t hear it then,* said (iss (urray, somewhat snappishly. 6But you will tell your mamma, of course,* pursued &# 6and she will tell your papa.* 60f course & shall tell mamma1that is the very thing that pleases me so much. & shall now e a le to convince her how mistaken she was in her fears a out me.* 60h, that*s it, is it; & was wondering what it was that delighted you so much.* 6Yes# and another thing is, that &*ve hum led (r. .atfield so charmingly# and another1why, you must allow me some share of female vanity/ & don*t pretend to e without that most essential attri ute of our se+1and if you had seen poor .atfield*s intense eagerness in making his ardent declaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of mind, that no effort of pride could conceal, on eing refused, you would have allowed & had some cause to e gratified.* 6The greater his agony, & should think, the less your cause for gratification.* 60h, nonsense7* cried the young lady, shaking herself with ve+ation. 6You either can*t understand me, or you won*t. &f & had not confidence in your magnanimity, & should think you envied me. But you will, perhaps, comprehend this cause of pleasure1which is as great as any1namely, that & am delighted with myself for my prudence, my self-command, my heartlessness, if you please. & was not a it taken y surprise, not a it confused, or awkward, or foolish# & just acted and spoke as & ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress throughout. "nd here was a man, decidedly good-looking15ane and 'usan Green call him ewitchingly handsome & suppose they*re two of the ladies he pretends would e so glad to have him# ut, however, he was certainly a very clever, witty, agreea le companion1not what you call clever, ut just enough to make him entertaining# and a man one needn*t e ashamed of anywhere, and would not soon grow tired of# and to confess the truth, & rather liked him1 etter even, of late, than .arry (eltham1and he evidently idolised me# and yet, though he came upon me all alone and unprepared, & had the wisdom, and the pride, and the strength to refuse him1and so scornfully and coolly as & did/ & have good reason to e proud of that.* 6"nd are you e$ually proud of having told him that his having the wealth of 'ir .ugh (eltham would make no difference to you, when that was not the case# and of having promised to tell no one of his misadventure, apparently without the slightest intention of keeping your promise;* 60f course7 what else could & do; You would not have had me1 ut & see, (iss Grey, you*re not in a good temper. .ere*s (atilda# &*ll see what she and mamma have to say a out it.* 'he left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no dou t, that & envied her. & did not1at least, & firmly elieved & did not. & was sorry for her# & was ama3ed, disgusted at her heartless vanity# & wondered why so much eauty

should e given to those who made so ad a use of it, and denied to some who would make it a enefit to oth themselves and others. But, God knows est, & concluded. There are, & suppose, some men as vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women may e useful to punish them.

CHAPTER 63THE /A); 60h, dear7 & wish .atfield had not een so precipitate7* said ,osalie ne+t day at four P.(., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window. 6There*s no inducement to go out now# and nothing to look forward to. The days will e so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them# and there are none this week, or ne+t either, that & know of.* 6Pity you were so cross to him,* o served (atilda, to whom this lamentation was addressed. 6.e*ll never come again/ and & suspect you liked him after all. & hoped you would have taken him for your eau, and left dear .arry to me.* 6.umph7 my eau must e an "donis indeed, (atilda, the admired of all eholders, if & am to e contented with him alone. &*m sorry to lose .atfield, & confess# ut the first decent man, or num er of men, that come to supply his place, will e more than welcome. &t*s 'unday to-morrow1& do wonder how he*ll look, and whether he*ll e a le to go through the service. (ost likely he*ll pretend he*s got a cold, and make (r. %eston do it all.* 69ot he7* e+claimed (atilda, somewhat contemptuously. 6-ool as he is, he*s not so soft as that comes to.* .er sister was slightly offended# ut the event proved (atilda was right/ the disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual. ,osalie, indeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected/ he might e a little paler# ut the difference, if any, was scarcely percepti le. "s for his dejection, & certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from the vestry as usual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse# though & did hear it uplifted in rating the se+ton in a manner that made the congregation stare# and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the communion-ta le, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that irreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with which he usually swept along1that air that seemed to say, 6You all reverence and adore me, & know# ut if anyone does not, & defy him to the teeth7* But the most remarka le change was, that he never once suffered his eyes to wander in the direction of (r. (urray*s pew, and did not leave the church till we were gone. (r. .atfield had dou tless received a very severe low# ut his pride impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. .e had een disappointed in his certain hope of o taining not only a eautiful, and, to him, highly attractive wife, ut one whose rank and fortune might give rilliance to far inferior charms/ he was likewise, no dou t, intensely mortified y his repulse, and deeply offended at the conduct of (iss (urray throughout. &t would have given him no little consolation to have known how disappointed she was to find him apparently

so little moved, and to see that he was a le to refrain from casting a single glance at her throughout oth services# though, she declared, it showed he was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes would have fallen upon her, if it were only y chance/ ut if they had so chanced to fall, she would have affirmed it was ecause they could not resist the attraction. &t might have pleased him, too, in some degree, to have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout that week 2the greater part of it, at least4, for lack of her usual source of e+citement# and how often she regretted having 6used him up so soon,* like a child that, having devoured its plumcake too hastily, sits sucking its fingers, and vainly lamenting its greediness. "t length & was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a walk to the village. 0stensi ly she went to get some shades of Berlin wool, at a tolera ly respecta le shop that was chiefly supported y the ladies of the vicinity/ really1& trust there is no reach of charity in supposing that she went with the idea of meeting either with the ,ector himself, or some other admirer y the way# for as we went along, she kept wondering 6what .atfield would do or say, if we met him,* Ac. Ac.# as we passed (r. Green*s park-gates, she 6wondered whether he was at home1great stupid lockhead*# as !ady (eltham*s carriage passed us, she 6wondered what (r. .arry was doing this fine day*# and then egan to a use his elder rother for eing 6such a fool as to get married and go and live in !ondon.* 6%hy,* said &, 6& thought you wanted to live in !ondon yourself.* 6Yes, ecause it*s so dull here/ ut then he makes it still duller y taking himself off/ and if he were not married & might have him instead of that odious 'ir Thomas.* Then, o serving the prints of a horse*s feet on the somewhat miry road, she 6wondered whether it was a gentleman*s horse,* and finally concluded it was, for the impressions were too small to have een made y a 6great clumsy carthorse*# and then she 6wondered who the rider could e,* and whether we should meet him coming ack, for she was sure he had only passed that morning# and lastly, when we entered the village and saw only a few of its hum le inha itants moving a out, she 6wondered why the stupid people couldn*t keep in their houses# she was sure she didn*t want to see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar clothes1it wasn*t for that she came to .orton7* "mid all this, & confess, & wondered, too, in secret, whether we should meet, or catch a glimpse of some ody else# and as we passed his lodgings, & even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window. 0n entering the shop, (iss (urray desired me to stand in the doorway while she transacted her usiness, and tell her if anyone passed. But alas7 there was no one visi le esides the villagers, e+cept 5ane and 'usan Green coming down the single street, apparently returning from a walk.

6'tupid things7* muttered she, as she came out after having concluded her argain. 6%hy couldn*t they have their dolt of a rother with them; even he would e etter than nothing.* 'he greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of pleasure at the happy meeting e$ual to their own. They placed themselves one on each side of her, and all three walked away chatting and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they e ut on tolera ly intimate terms. But &, feeling myself to e one too many, left them to their merriment and lagged ehind, as usual on such occasions/ & had no relish for walking eside (iss Green or (iss 'usan like one deaf and dum , who could neither speak nor e spoken to. But this time & was not long alone. &t struck me, first, as very odd, that just as & was thinking a out (r. %eston he should come up and accost me# ut afterwards, on due reflection, & thought there was nothing odd a out it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me# for on such a morning and so near his own a ode, it was natural enough that he should e a out# and as for my thinking of him, & had een doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our journey# so there was nothing remarka le in that. 6You are alone again, (iss Grey,* said he. 6Yes.* 6%hat kind of people are those ladies1the (isses Green;* 6& really don*t know.* 6That*s strange1when you live so near and see them so often7* 6%ell, & suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls# ut & imagine you must know them etter than & do, yourself, for & never e+changed a word with either of them.* 6&ndeed; They don*t strike me as eing particularly reserved.* 6<ery likely they are not so to people of their own class# ut they consider themselves as moving in $uite a different sphere from me7* .e made no reply to this/ ut after a short pause, he said,16& suppose it*s these things, (iss Grey, that make you think you could not live without a home;* 69ot e+actly. The fact is & am too socially disposed to e a le to live contentedly without a friend# and as the only friends & have, or am likely to have, are at home, if it1or rather, if they were gone1& will not say & could not live1 ut & would rather not live in such a desolate world.* 6But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have; "re you so unsocia le that you cannot make friends;* 69o, ut & never made one yet# and in my present position there is no possi ility of doing so, or even of forming a common ac$uaintance. The fault may e partly in myself, ut & hope not altogether.* 6The fault is partly in society, and partly, & should think, in your immediate neigh ours/ and partly, too, in yourself# for many ladies, in your position, would

make themselves e noticed and accounted of. But your pupils should e companions for you in some degree# they cannot e many years younger than yourself.* 60h, yes, they are good company sometimes# ut & cannot call them friends, nor would they think of estowing such a name on me1they have other companions etter suited to their tastes.* 6Perhaps you are too wise for them. .ow do you amuse yourself when alone 1do you read much;* 6,eading is my favourite occupation, when & have leisure for it and ooks to read.* -rom speaking of ooks in general, he passed to different ooks in particular, and proceeded y rapid transitions from topic to topic, till several matters, oth of taste and opinion, had een discussed considera ly within the space of half an hour, ut without the em ellishment of many o servations from himself# he eing evidently less ent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than on discovering mine. .e had not the tact, or the art, to effect such a purpose y skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the real or apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation y impercepti le gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to/ ut such gentle a ruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness, could not possi ly offend me. 6"nd why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual capacities/ what is it to him what & think or feel;* & asked myself. "nd my heart thro ed in answer to the $uestion. But 5ane and 'usan Green soon reached their home. "s they stood parleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade (iss (urray to come in, & wished (r. %eston would go, that she might not see him with me when she turned round# ut, unfortunately, his usiness, which was to pay one more visit to poor (ark %ood, led him to pursue the same path as we did, till nearly the close of our journey. %hen, however, he saw that ,osalie had taken leave of her friends and & was a out to join her, he would have left me and passed on at a $uicker pace# ut, as he civilly lifted his hat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of returning the salute with a stiff, ungracious ow, she accosted him with one of her sweetest smiles, and, walking y his side, egan to talk to him with all imagina le cheerfulness and affa ility# and so we proceeded all three together. "fter a short pause in the conversation, (r. %eston made some remark addressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had een talking of efore# ut efore & could answer, (iss (urray replied to the o servation and enlarged upon it/ he rejoined# and, from thence to the close of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself. &t might e partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and assurance/ ut & felt myself wronged/ & trem led with apprehension# and & listened with envy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with an+iety the right smile with which she looked into his face from time to time/ for she was walking a little in advance, for the purpose 2as & judged4 of

eing seen as well as heard. &f her conversation was light and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something to say, or for suita le words to e+press it in. There was nothing pert or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with (r. .atfield, there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity, which & thought must e peculiarly pleasing to a man of (r. %eston*s disposition and temperament. %hen he was gone she egan to laugh, and muttered to herself, 6& thought & could do it7* 68o what;* & asked. 6-i+ that man.* 6%hat in the world do you mean;* 6& mean that he will go home and dream of me. & have shot him through the heart7* 6.ow do you know;* 6By many infalli le proofs/ more especially the look he gave me when he went away. &t was not an impudent look1& e+onerate him from that1it was a look of reverential, tender adoration. .a, ha7 he*s not $uite such a stupid lockhead as & thought him7* & made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and & could not trust myself to speak. 60 God, avert it7* & cried, internally16for his sake, not for mine7* (iss (urray made several trivial o servations as we passed up the park, to which 2in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings appear4 & could only answer y monosylla les. %hether she intended to torment me, or merely to amuse herself, & could not tell1and did not much care# ut & thought of the poor man and his one lam , and the rich man with his thousand flocks# and & dreaded & knew not what for (r. %eston, independently of my own lighted hopes. ,ight glad was & to get into the house, and find myself alone once more in my own room. (y first impulse was to sink into the chair eside the ed# and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate urst of tears/ there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence# ut, alas7 & must restrain and swallow ack my feelings still/ there was the ell1the odious ell for the schoolroom dinner# and & must go down with a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense1yes, and eat, too, if possi le, as if all was right, and & was just returned from a pleasant walk.

CHAPTER 63ITHE S*BSTIT*TI ! 9e+t 'unday was one of the gloomiest of "pril days1a day of thick, dark clouds, and heavy showers. 9one of the (urrays were disposed to attend church in the afternoon, e+cepting ,osalie/ she was ent upon going as usual# so she ordered the carriage, and & went with her/ nothing loth, of course, for at church & might look without fear of scorn or censure upon a form and face more

pleasing to me than the most eautiful of God*s creations# & might listen without distur ance to a voice more charming than the sweetest music to my ears# & might seem to hold communion with that soul in which & felt so deeply interested, and im i e its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to such felicity e+cept the secret reproaches of my conscience, which would too often whisper that & was deceiving my own self, and mocking God with the service of a heart more ent upon the creature than the =reator. 'ometimes, such thoughts would give me trou le enough# ut sometimes & could $uiet them with thinking1it is not the man, it is his goodness that & love. 6%hatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these things.* %e do well to worship God in .is works# and & know none of them in which so many of .is attri utes1so much of .is own spirit shines, as in this .is faithful servant# whom to know and not to appreciate, were o tuse insensi ility in me, who have so little else to occupy my heart. "lmost immediately after the conclusion of the service, (iss (urray left the church. %e had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and the carriage was not yet come. & wondered at her coming forth so hastily, for neither young (eltham nor '$uire Green was there# ut & soon found it was to secure an interview with (r. %eston as he came out, which he presently did. .aving saluted us oth, he would have passed on, ut she detained him# first with o servations upon the disagreea le weather, and then with asking if he would e so kind as to come some time to-morrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who kept the porter*s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to see him. .e promised to do so. 6"nd at what time will you e most likely to come, (r. %eston; The old woman will like to know when to e+pect you1you know such people think more a out having their cottages in order when decent people come to see them than we are apt to suppose.* .ere was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless (iss (urray. (r. %eston named an hour in the morning at which he would endeavour, to e there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the footman was waiting, with an open um rella, to escort (iss (urray through the churchyard. & was a out to follow# ut (r. %eston had an um rella too, and offered me the enefit of its shelter, for it was raining heavily. 69o, thank you, & don*t mind the rain,* & said. & always lacked common sense when taken y surprise. 6But you don*t like it, & suppose;1an um rella will do you no harm at any rate,* he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended# as a man of worse temper or less penetration would have een at such a refusal of his aid. & could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so went with him to the carriage# he even offered me his hand on getting in/ an unnecessary piece of civility, ut & accepted that too, for fear of giving offence. 0ne glance he gave, one little smile

at parting1it was ut for a moment# ut therein & read, or thought & read, a meaning that kindled in my heart a righter flame of hope than had ever yet arisen. 6& would have sent the footman ack for you, (iss Grey, if you*d waited a moment1you needn*t have taken (r. %eston*s um rella,* o served ,osalie, with a very unamia le cloud upon her pretty face. 6& would have come without an um rella, ut (r. %eston offered me the enefit of his, and & could not have refused it more than & did without offending him,* replied &, smiling placidly# for my inward happiness made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time. The carriage was now in motion. (iss (urray ent forwards, and looked out of the window as we were passing (r. %eston. .e was pacing homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head. 6'tupid ass7* cried she, throwing herself ack again in the seat. 6You don*t know what you*ve lost y not looking this way7*

+/h"t h"s he lost-. +A bo% &ro, ,e, th"t %oul# h"4e r"ise# hi, to the se4enth he"4en'.
& made no answer. & saw she was out of humour, and & derived a secret gratification from the fact, not that she was ve+ed, ut that she thought she had reason to e so. &t made me think my hopes were not entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination. 6& mean to take up (r. %eston instead of (r. .atfield,* said my companion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual cheerfulness. 6The all at "sh y Park takes place on Tuesday, you know# and mamma thinks it very likely that 'ir Thomas will propose to me then/ such things are often done in the privacy of the all-room, when gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if & am to e married so soon, & must make the est of the present time/ & am determined .atfield shall not e the only man who shall lay his heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.* 6&f you mean (r. %eston to e one of your victims,* said &, with affected indifference, 6you will have to make such overtures yourself that you will find it difficult to draw ack when he asks you to fulfil the e+pectations you have raised.* 6& don*t suppose he will ask me to marry him, nor should & desire it/ that would e rather too much presumption7 ut & intend him to feel my power. .e has felt it already, indeed/ ut he shall acknowledge it too# and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and only amuse me with the result of them1 for a time.* 60h7 that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear,* & inwardly e+claimed. & was far too indignant to ha3ard a reply to her o servation aloud#

and nothing more was said a out (r. %eston that day, y me or in my hearing. But ne+t morning, soon after reakfast, (iss (urray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her studies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said, 6(atilda, & want you to take a walk with me a out eleven o*clock.* 60h, & can*t, ,osalie7 & have to give orders a out my new ridle and saddlecloth, and speak to the rat-catcher a out his dogs/ (iss Grey must go with you.* 69o, & want you,* said ,osalie# and calling her sister to the window, she whispered an e+planation in her ear# upon which the latter consented to go. & remem ered that eleven was the hour at which (r. %eston proposed to come to the porter*s lodge# and remem ering that, & eheld the whole contrivance. "ccordingly, at dinner, & was entertained with a long account of how (r. %eston had overtaken them as they were walking along the road# and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and really found him $uite an agreea le companion# and how he must have een, and evidently was, delighted with them and their ama3ing condescension, Ac. Ac.

CHAPTER 63IIC !(ESSI !S "s & am in the way of confessions & may as well acknowledge that, a out this time, & paid more attention to dress than ever & had done efore. This is not saying much1for hitherto & had een a little neglectful in that particular# ut now, also, it was no uncommon thing to spend as much as two minutes in the contemplation of my own image in the glass# though & never could derive any consolation from such a study. & could discover no eauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek, and ordinary dark rown hair# there might e intellect in the forehead, there might e e+pression in the dark grey eyes, ut what of that;1a low Grecian row, and large lack eyes devoid of sentiment would e esteemed far prefera le. &t is foolish to wish for eauty. 'ensi le people never either desire it for themselves or care a out it in others. &f the mind e ut well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the e+terior. 'o said the teachers of our childhood# and so say we to the children of the present day. "ll very judicious and proper, no dou t# ut are such assertions supported y actual e+perience; %e are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more pleasing than a eautiful face1when we know no harm of the possessor at least; " little girl loves her ird1%hy; Because it lives and feels# ecause it is helpless and harmless; " toad, likewise, lives and feels, and is e$ually helpless and harmless# ut though she would not hurt a toad, she cannot love it like the ird, with its graceful form, soft feathers, and right, speaking eyes. &f a woman is fair and amia le, she is praised for oth $ualities, ut especially the former, y the ulk of mankind/ if, on the other hand, she is disagreea le in person and character, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime, ecause, to common o servers, it gives the greatest offence# while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired manners and secluded life, no one

ever knows of her goodness, e+cept her immediate connections. 0thers, on the contrary, are disposed to form unfavoura le opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it e ut to e+cuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavoured y nature# and visa versH with her whose angel form conceals a vicious heart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects and foi les that would not e tolerated in another. They that have eauty, let them e thankful for it, and make a good use of it, like any other talent# they that have it not, let them console themselves, and do the est they can without it/ certainly, though lia le to e over-estimated, it is a gift of God, and not to e despised. (any will feel this who have felt that they could love, and whose hearts tell them that they are worthy to e loved again# while yet they are de arred, y the lack of this or some such seeming trifle, from giving and receiving that happiness they seem almost made to feel and to impart. "s well might the hum le glowworm despise that power of giving light without which the roving fly might pass her and repass her a thousand times, and never rest eside her/ she might hear her winged darling u33ing over and around her# he vainly seeking her, she longing to e found, ut with no power to make her presence known, no voice to call him, no wings to follow his flight#1the fly must seek another mate, the worm must live and die alone. 'uch were some of my reflections a out this period. & might go on prosing more and more, & might dive much deeper, and disclose other thoughts, propose $uestions the reader might e pu33led to answer, and deduce arguments that might startle his prejudices, or, perhaps, provoke his ridicule, ecause he could not comprehend them# ut & for ear. 9ow, therefore, let us return to (iss (urray. 'he accompanied her mamma to the all on Tuesday# of course splendidly attired, and delighted with her prospects and her charms. "s "sh y Park was nearly ten miles distant from .orton !odge, they had to set out pretty early, and & intended to have spent the evening with 9ancy Brown, whom & had not seen for a long time# ut my kind pupil took care & should spend it neither there nor anywhere else eyond the limits of the schoolroom, y giving me a piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied till ed-time. " out eleven ne+t morning, as soon as she had left her room, she came to tell me her news. 'ir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the all# an event which reflected great credit on her mamma*s sagacity, if not upon her skill in contrivance. & rather incline to the elief that she had first laid her plans, and then predicted their success. The offer had een accepted, of course, and the ridegroom elect was coming that day to settle matters with (r. (urray. ,osalie was pleased with the thoughts of ecoming mistress of "sh y Park# she was elated with the prospect of the ridal ceremony and its attendant splendour and Eclat, the honeymoon spent a road, and the su se$uent gaieties she e+pected to enjoy in !ondon and elsewhere# she appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time eing, with 'ir Thomas himself, ecause she had so lately seen him, danced with him, and een flattered y him# ut, after all, she

seemed to shrink from the idea of eing so soon united/ she wished the ceremony to e delayed some months, at least# and & wished it too. &t seemed a horri le thing to hurry on the inauspicious match, and not to give the poor creature time to think and reason on the irrevoca le step she was a out to take. & made no pretension to 6a mother*s watchful, an+ious care,* ut & was ama3ed and horrified at (rs. (urray*s heartlessness, or want of thought for the real good of her child# and y my unheeded warnings and e+hortations, & vainly strove to remedy the evil. (iss (urray only laughed at what & said# and & soon found that her reluctance to an immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do what e+ecution she could among the young gentlemen of her ac$uaintance, efore she was incapacitated from further mischief of the kind. &t was for this cause that, efore confiding to me the secret of her engagement, she had e+tracted a promise that & would not mention a word on the su ject to any one. "nd when & saw this, and when & eheld her plunge more recklessly than ever into the depths of heartless co$uetry, & had no more pity for her. 6=ome what will,* & thought, 6she deserves it. 'ir Thomas cannot e too ad for her# and the sooner she is incapacitated from deceiving and injuring others the etter.* The wedding was fi+ed for the first of 5une. Between that and the critical all was little more than si+ weeks# ut, with ,osalie*s accomplished skill and resolute e+ertion, much might e done, even within that period# especially as 'ir Thomas spent most of the interim in !ondon# whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his lawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. .e endeavoured to supply the want of his presence y a pretty constant fire of illets-dou+# ut these did not attract the neigh ours* attention, and open their eyes, as personal visits would have done# and old !ady "sh y*s haughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from spreading the news, while her indifferent health prevented her coming to visit her future daughter-in-law# so that, altogether, this affair was kept far closer than such things usually are. ,osalie would sometimes show her lover*s epistles to me, to convince me what a kind, devoted hus and he would make. 'he showed me the letters of another individual, too, the unfortunate (r. Green, who had not the courage, or, as she e+pressed it, the 6spunk,* to plead his cause in person, ut whom one denial would not satisfy/ he must write again and again. .e would not have done so if he could have seen the grimaces his fair idol made over his moving appeals to her feelings, and heard her scornful laughter, and the oppro rious epithets she heaped upon him for his perseverance. 6%hy don*t you tell him, at once, that you are engaged;* & asked. 60h, & don*t want him to know that,* replied she. 6&f he knew it, his sisters and every ody would know it, and then there would e an end of my1ahem7 "nd, esides, if & told him that, he would think my engagement was the only o stacle, and that & would have him if & were free# which & could not ear that any man should think, and he, of all others, at least. Besides, & don*t care for his letters,* she added, contemptuously# 6he may write as often as he pleases, and look as great a calf as he likes when & meet him# it only amuses me.*

(eantime, young (eltham was pretty fre$uent in his visits to the house or transits past it# and, judging y (atilda*s e+ecrations and reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him than civility re$uired# in other words, she carried on as animated a flirtation as the presence of her parents would admit. 'he made some attempts to ring (r. .atfield once more to her feet# ut finding them unsuccessful, she repaid his haughty indifference with still loftier scorn, and spoke of him with as much disdain and detestation as she had formerly done of his curate. But, amid all this, she never for a moment lost sight of (r. %eston. 'he em raced every opportunity of meeting him, tried every art to fascinate him, and pursued him with as much perseverance as if she really loved him and no other, and the happiness of her life depended upon eliciting a return of affection. 'uch conduct was completely eyond my comprehension. .ad & seen it depicted in a novel, & should have thought it unnatural# had & heard it descri ed y others, & should have deemed it a mistake or an e+aggeration# ut when & saw it with my own eyes, and suffered from it too, & could only conclude that e+cessive vanity, like drunkenness, hardens the heart, enslaves the faculties, and perverts the feelings# and that dogs are not the only creatures which, when gorged to the throat, will yet gloat over what they cannot devour, and grudge the smallest morsel to a starving rother. 'he now ecame e+tremely eneficent to the poor cottagers. .er ac$uaintance among them was more widely e+tended, her visits to their hum le dwellings were more fre$uent and e+cursive than they had ever een efore. .ere y, she earned among them the reputation of a condescending and very charita le young lady# and their encomiums were sure to e repeated to (r. %eston/ whom also she had thus a daily chance of meeting in one or other of their a odes, or in her transits to and fro# and often, likewise, she could gather, through their gossip, to what places he was likely to go at such and such a time, whether to apti3e a child, or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or the dying# and most skilfully she laid her plans accordingly. &n these e+cursions she would sometimes go with her sister1whom, y some means, she had persuaded or ri ed to enter into her schemes1sometimes alone, never, now, with me# so that & was de arred the pleasure of seeing (r. %eston, or hearing his voice even in conversation with another/ which would certainly have een a very great pleasure, however hurtful or however fraught with pain. & could not even see him at church/ for (iss (urray, under some trivial prete+t, chose to take possession of that corner in the family pew which had een mine ever since & came# and, unless & had the presumption to station myself etween (r. and (rs. (urray, & must sit with my ack to the pulpit, which & accordingly did. 9ow, also, & never walked home with my pupils/ they said their mamma thought it did not look well to see three people out of the family walking, and only two going in the carriage# and, as they greatly preferred walking in fine weather, & should e honoured y going with the seniors. 6"nd esides,* said they, 6you can*t walk as fast as we do# you know you*re always lagging ehind.* & knew these were false e+cuses, ut & made no o jections, and never contradicted such

assertions, well knowing the motives which dictated them. "nd in the afternoons, during those si+ memora le weeks, & never went to church at all. &f & had a cold, or any slight indisposition, they took advantage of that to make me stay at home# and often they would tell me they were not going again that day, themselves, and then pretend to change their minds, and set off without telling me/ so managing their departure that & never discovered the change of purpose till too late. :pon their return home, on one of these occasions, they entertained me with an animated account of a conversation they had had with (r. %eston as they came along. 6"nd he asked if you were ill, (iss Grey,* said (atilda# 6 ut we told him you were $uite well, only you didn*t want to come to church1so he*ll think you*re turned wicked.* "ll chance meetings on week-days were likewise carefully prevented# for, lest & should go to see poor 9ancy Brown or any other person, (iss (urray took good care to provide sufficient employment for all my leisure hours. There was always some drawing to finish, some music to copy, or some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging in anything eyond a short walk a out the grounds, however she or her sister might e occupied. 0ne morning, having sought and waylaid (r. %eston, they returned in high glee to give me an account of their interview. 6"nd he asked after you again,* said (atilda, in spite of her sister*s silent ut imperative intimation that she should hold her tongue. 6.e wondered why you were never with us, and thought you must have delicate health, as you came out so seldom.*

+He #i#n.t 0"til#"%h"t nonsense you.re t"lking'.

60h, ,osalie, what a lie7 .e did, you know# and you said18on*t, ,osalie1 hang it71& won*t e pinched so7 "nd, (iss Grey, ,osalie told him you were $uite well, ut you were always so uried in your ooks that you had no pleasure in anything else.* 6%hat an idea he must have of me7* & thought.

+An#,. I "ske#, +#oes ol# !"ncy e4er in2uire "bout ,e-.

6Yes# and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you can do nothing else.* 6That is not the case though# if you had told her & was so usy & could not come to see her, it would have een nearer the truth.* 6& don*t think it would,* replied (iss (urray, suddenly kindling up# 6&*m sure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so little teaching to do.* &t was no use eginning to dispute with such indulged, unreasoning creatures/ so & held my peace. & was accustomed, now, to keeping silence when things distasteful to my ear were uttered# and now, too, & was used to wearing a placid smiling countenance when my heart was itter within me. 0nly those who have felt the like can imagine my feelings, as & sat with an assumption of smiling

indifference, listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with (r. %eston, which they seemed to find such pleasure in descri ing to me# and hearing things asserted of him which, from the character of the man, & knew to e e+aggerations and perversions of the truth, if not entirely false1things derogatory to him, and flattering to them1especially to (iss (urray1which & urned to contradict, or, at least, to show my dou ts a out, ut dared not# lest, in e+pressing my dis elief, & should display my interest too. 0ther things & heard, which & felt or feared were indeed too true/ ut & must still conceal my an+iety respecting him, my indignation against them, eneath a careless aspect# others, again, mere hints of something said or done, which & longed to hear more of, ut could not venture to in$uire. 'o passed the weary time. & could not even comfort myself with saying, 6'he will soon e married# and then there may e hope.* 'oon after her marriage the holidays would come# and when & returned from home, most likely, (r. %eston would e gone, for & was told that he and the ,ector could not agree 2the ,ector*s fault, of course4, and he was a out to remove to another place. 9o1 esides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that, though he know it not, & was more worthy of his love than ,osalie (urray, charming and engaging as she was# for & could appreciate his e+cellence, which she could not/ & would devote my life to the promotion of his happiness# she would destroy his happiness for the momentary gratification of her own vanity. 60h, if he could ut know the difference7* & would earnestly e+claim. 6But no7 & would not have him see my heart/ yet, if he could ut know her hollowness, her worthless, heartless frivolity, he would then e safe, and & should e1almost happy, though & might never see him more7* & fear, y this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly and weakness & have so freely laid efore him. & never disclosed it then, and would not have done so had my own sister or my mother een with me in the house. & was a close and resolute dissem ler1in this one case at least. (y prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were witnessed y myself and heaven alone. %hen we are harassed y sorrows or an+ieties, or long oppressed y any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can o tain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in poetry1and often find it, too1 whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmoni3e with our e+isting case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, ut more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to un urden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this time, at %ellwood .ouse and here, when suffering from home-sick melancholy, & had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of consolation# and now & flew to it again, with greater avidity than ever, ecause & seemed to need it more. & still preserve those relics of past sufferings and e+perience, like pillars of witness set

up in travelling through the vale of life, to mark particular occurrences. The footsteps are o literated now# the face of the country may e changed# ut the pillar is still there, to remind me how all things were when it was reared. !est the reader should e curious to see any of these effusions, & will favour him with one short specimen/ cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to which they owed their eing/1 0h, they have ro ed me of the hope (y spirit held so dear# They will not let me hear that voice (y soul delights to hear. They will not let me see that face & so delight to see# "nd they have taken all thy smiles, "nd all thy love from me. %ell, let them sei3e on all they can#1 0ne treasure still is mine,1 " heart that loves to think on thee, "nd feels the worth of thine. Yes, at least, they could not deprive me of that/ & could think of him day and night# and & could feel that he was worthy to e thought of. 9o ody knew him as & did# no ody could appreciate him as & did# no ody could love him as &1could, if & might/ ut there was the evil. %hat usiness had & to think so much of one that never thought of me; %as it not foolish; was it not wrong; Yet, if & found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if & kept those thoughts to myself, and trou led no one else with them, where was the harm of it; & would ask myself. "nd such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters. But, if those thoughts rought delight, it was a painful, trou led pleasure, too near akin to anguish# and one that did me more injury than & was aware of. &t was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more e+perience would dou tless have denied herself. "nd yet, how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that right o ject and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around/ the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay efore me. &t was wrong to e so joyless, so desponding# & should have made God my friend, and to do .is will the pleasure and the usiness of my life# ut faith was weak, and passion was too strong. &n this time of trou le & had two other causes of affliction. The first may seem a trifle, ut it cost me many a tear/ 'nap, my little dum , rough-visaged, ut right-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing & had to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender mercies of the village rat-catcher, a man notorious for his rutal treatment of his canine slaves. The other was serious enough# my letters from home gave intimation that my father*s health was worse. 9o oding fears were e+pressed, ut & was grown timid and despondent, and could not help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there. & seemed to

see the lack clouds gathering round my native hills, and to hear the angry muttering of a storm that was a out to urst, and desolate our hearth.

CHAPTER 63III0IRTH A!1 0 *R!I!G The Cst of 5une arrived at last/ and ,osalie (urray was transmuted into !ady "sh y. (ost splendidly eautiful she looked in her ridal costume. :pon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came flying into the schoolroom, flushed with e+citement, and laughing, half in mirth, and half in reckless desperation, as it seemed to me. 69ow, (iss Grey, &*m !ady "sh y7* she e+claimed. 6&t*s done, my fate is sealed/ there*s no drawing ack now. &*m come to receive your congratulations and id you good- y# and then &*m off for Paris, ,ome, 9aples, 'wit3erland, !ondon1oh, dear7 what a deal & shall see and hear efore & come ack again. But don*t forget me/ & shan*t forget you, though &*ve een a naughty girl. =ome, why don*t you congratulate me;* 6& cannot congratulate you,* & replied, 6till & know whether this change is really for the etter/ ut & sincerely hope it is# and & wish you true happiness and the est of lessings.* 6%ell, good- y, the carriage is waiting, and they*re calling me.* 'he gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away# ut, suddenly returning, em raced me with more affection than & thought her capa le of evincing, and departed with tears in her eyes. Poor girl7 & really loved her then# and forgave her from my heart all the injury she had done me1and others also/ she had not half known it, & was sure# and & prayed God to pardon her too. 8uring the remainder of that day of festal sadness, & was left to my own devices. Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation, & wandered a out with a ook in my hand for several hours, more thinking than reading, for & had many things to think a out. &n the evening, & made use of my li erty to go and see my old friend 9ancy once again# to apologi3e for my long a sence 2which must have seemed so neglectful and unkind4 y telling her how usy & had een# and to talk, or read, or work for her, whichever might e most accepta le, and also, of course, to tell her the news of this important day/ and perhaps to o tain a little information from her in return, respecting (r. %eston*s e+pected departure. But of this she seemed to know nothing, and & hoped, as she did, that it was all a false report. 'he was very glad to see me# ut, happily, her eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost independent of my services. 'he was deeply interested in the wedding# ut while & amused her with the details of the festive day, the splendours of the ridal party and of the ride herself, she often sighed and shook her head, and wished good might come of it# she seemed, like me, to regard it rather as a theme for sorrow than rejoicing. & sat a long time talking to her a out that and other things1 ut no one came. 'hall & confess that & sometimes looked towards the door with a half-e+pectant wish to see it open and give entrance to (r. %eston, as had happened once efore; and that, returning through the lanes and fields, & often paused to look

round me, and walked more slowly than was at all necessary1for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot one1and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant glimpse of any one, e+cept a few la ourers returning from their work; 'unday, however, was approaching/ & should see him then/ for now that (iss (urray was gone, & could have my old corner again. & should see him, and y look, speech, and manner, & might judge whether the circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him. .appily & could perceive no shadow of a difference/ he wore the same aspect as he had worn two months ago1voice, look, manner, all alike unchanged/ there was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the same forci le clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in all he said and did, that made itself, not marked y the eye and ear, ut felt upon the hearts of his audience. & walked home with (iss (atilda# ut he did not join us. (atilda was now sadly at a loss for amusement, and wofully in want of a companion/ her rothers at school, her sister married and gone, she too young to e admitted into society# for which, from ,osalie*s e+ample, she was in some degree eginning to ac$uire a taste1a taste at least for the company of certain classes of gentlemen# at this dull time of year1no hunting going on, no shooting even1for, though she might not join in that, it was something to see her father or the gamekeeper go out with the dogs, and to talk with them on their return, a out the different irds they had agged. 9ow, also, she was denied the solace which the companionship of the coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds, and pointers might have afforded# for her mother having, notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country life, so satisfactorily disposed of her elder daughter, the pride of her heart had egun seriously to turn her attention to the younger# and, eing truly alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it high time to work a reform, had een roused at length to e+ert her authority, and prohi ited entirely the yards, sta les, kennels, and coach-house. 0f course, she was not implicitly o eyed# ut, indulgent as she had hitherto een, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was not so gentle as she re$uired that of her governesses to e, and her will was not to e thwarted with impunity. "fter many a scene of contention etween mother and daughter, many a violent out reak which & was ashamed to witness, in which the father*s authority was often called in to confirm with oaths and threats the mother*s slighted prohi itions1for even he could see that 6Tilly, though she would have made a fine lad, was not $uite what a young lady ought to e*1(atilda at length found that her easiest plan was to keep clear of the for idden regions# unless she could now and then steal a visit without her watchful mother*s knowledge. "mid all this, let it not e imagined that & escaped without many a reprimand, and many an implied reproach, that lost none of its sting from not eing openly worded# ut rather wounded the more deeply, ecause, from that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence. -re$uently, & was told to amuse (iss (atilda with other things, and to remind her of her mother*s precepts and prohi itions. &

did so to the est of my power/ ut she would not e amused against her will, and could not against her taste# and though & went eyond mere reminding, such gentle remonstrances as & could use were utterly ineffectual. 68ear (iss Grey7 it is the strangest thing. & suppose you can*t help it, if it*s not in your nature1 ut & wonder you can*t win the confidence of that girl, and make your society at least as agreea le to her as that of ,o ert or 5oseph7* 6They can talk the est a out the things in which she is most interested,* & replied. 6%ell7 that is a strange confession, however, to come from her governess7 %ho is to form a young lady*s tastes, & wonder, if the governess doesn*t do it; & have known governesses who have so completely identified themselves with the reputation of their young ladies for elegance and propriety in mind and manners, that they would lush to speak a word against them# and to hear the slightest lame imputed to their pupils was worse than to e censured in their own persons1and & really think it very natural, for my part.*

+1o you, ,".",-.

6Yes, of course/ the young lady*s proficiency and elegance is of more conse$uence to the governess than her own, as well as to the world. &f she wishes to prosper in her vocation she must devote all her energies to her usiness/ all her ideas and all her am ition will tend to the accomplishment of that one o ject. %hen we wish to decide upon the merits of a governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she professes to have educated, and judge accordingly. The judicious governess knows this/ she knows that, while she lives in o scurity herself, her pupils* virtues and defects will e open to every eye# and that, unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need not hope for success. You see, (iss Grey, it is just the same as any other trade or profession/ they that wish to prosper must devote themselves ody and soul to their calling# and if they egin to yield to indolence or self-indulgence they are speedily distanced y wiser competitors/ there is little to choose etween a person that ruins her pupils y neglect, and one that corrupts them y her e+ample. You will e+cuse my dropping these little hints/ you know it is all for your own good. (any ladies would speak to you much more strongly# and many would not trou le themselves to speak at all, ut $uietly look out for a su stitute. That, of course, would e the easiest plan/ ut & know the advantages of a place like this to a person in your situation# and & have no desire to part with you, as & am sure you would do very well if you will only think of these things and try to e+ert yourself a little more/ then, & am convinced, you would soon ac$uire that delicate tact which alone is wanting to give you a proper influence over the mind of your pupil.* & was a out to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her e+pectations# ut she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her speech. .aving said what

she wished, it was no part of her plan to await my answer/ it was my usiness to hear, and not to speak. .owever, as & have said, (atilda at length yielded in some degree to her mother*s authority 2pity it had not een e+erted efore4# and eing thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing for it ut to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the governess, and to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father*s estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that inha ited them. &n one of these walks, it was our chance to meet (r. %eston. This was what & had long desired# ut now, for a moment, & wished either he or & were away/ & felt my heart thro so violently that & dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear# ut & think he hardly glanced at me, and & was soon calm enough. "fter a rief salutation to oth, he asked (atilda if she had lately heard from her sister. 6Yes,* replied she. 6'he was at Paris when she wrote, and very well, and very happy.* 'he spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently sly. .e did not seem to notice it, ut replied, with e$ual emphasis, and very seriously1 6& hope she will continue to e so.* 68o you think it likely;* & ventured to in$uire/ for (atilda had started off in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret. 6& cannot tell,* replied he. 6'ir Thomas may e a etter man than & suppose# ut, from all & have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one so young and gay, and1and interesting, to e+press many things y one word1whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to e thoughtlessness1no trifling fault to e sure, since it renders the possessor lia le to almost every other, and e+poses him to so many temptations1 ut it seems a pity that she should e thrown away on such a man. &t was her mother*s wish, & suppose;* 6Yes# and her own too, & think, for she always laughed at my attempts to dissuade her from the step.* 6You did attempt it; Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it. "s for (rs. (urray, & don*t know how she can justify her conduct/ if & had sufficient ac$uaintance with her, &*d ask her.* 6&t seems unnatural/ ut some people think rank and wealth the chief good# and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they have done their duty.* 6True/ ut is it not strange that persons of e+perience, who have een married themselves, should judge so falsely;* (atilda now came panting ack, with the lacerated ody of the young hare in her hand. 6%as it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, (iss (urray;* asked (r. %eston, apparently pu33led at her gleeful countenance.

6& pretended to want to save it,* she answered, honestly enough, 6as it was so glaringly out of season# ut & was etter pleased to see it lolled. .owever, you can oth witness that & couldn*t help it/ Prince was determined to have her# and he clutched her y the ack, and killed her in a minute7 %asn*t it a no le chase;* 6<ery7 for a young lady after a leveret.* There was a $uiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost upon her# she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a significant 6.umph7* asked me how & had enjoyed the fun. & replied that & saw no fun in the matter# ut admitted that & had not o served the transaction very narrowly. 68idn*t you see how it dou led1just like an old hare; and didn*t you hear it scream;* 6&*m happy to say & did not.* 6&t cried out just like a child.* 6Poor little thing7 %hat will you do with it;* 6=ome along1& shall leave it in the first house we come to. & don*t want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog kill it.* (r. %eston was now gone, and we too went on our way# ut as we returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and demolished some spicecake and currant-wine in e+change, we met him returning also from the e+ecution of his mission, whatever it might e. .e carried in his hand a cluster of eautiful lue ells, which he offered to me# o serving, with a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that lue ells were num ered among my favourite flowers. &t was done as a simple act of goodwill, without compliment or remarka le courtesy, or any look that could e construed into 6reverential, tender adoration* 2vide ,osalie (urray4# ut still, it was something to find my unimportant saying so well remem ered/ it was something that he had noticed so accurately the time & had ceased to e visi le. 6& was told,* said he, 6that you were a perfect ookworm, (iss Grey/ so completely a sor ed in your studies that you were lost to every other pleasure.* 6Yes, and it*s $uite true7* cried (atilda. 69o, (r. %eston/ don*t elieve it/ it*s a scandalous li el. These young ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the e+pense of their friends# and you ought to e careful how you listen to them.* 6& hope this assertion is groundless, at any rate.*

+/hy- 1o you $"rticul"rly object to l"#ies stu#ying-.

69o# ut & o ject to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as to lose sight of everything else. )+cept under peculiar circumstances, & consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an injury to the mind as well as the ody.* 6%ell, & have neither the time nor the inclination for such transgressions.*

%e parted again. %ell7 what is there remarka le in all this; %hy have & recorded it; Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes. 'hallow- rained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you would say# and & will not venture to deny it/ suspicions to that effect arose too fre$uently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder/ the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes# then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in a moment. But alas7 that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally $uenched y a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my father*s increasing illness, that & feared there was little or no chance of his recovery# and, close at hand as the holidays were, & almost trem led lest they should come too late for me to meet him in this world. Two days after, a letter from (ary told me his life was despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching. Then, immediately, & sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay. (rs. (urray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and oldness with which & urged the re$uest, and thought there was no occasion to hurry# ut finally gave me leave/ stating, however, that there was 6no need to e in such agitation a out the matter1it might prove a false alarm after all# and if not1why, it was only in the common course of nature/ we must all die some time# and & was not to suppose myself the only afflicted person in the world#* and concluding with saying & might have the phaeton to take me to 0---. 6"nd instead of repining, (iss Grey, e thankful for the privileges you enjoy. There*s many a poor clergyman whose family would e plunged into ruin y the event of his death# ut you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue their patronage, and to show you every consideration.* & thanked her for her 6consideration,* and flew to my room to make some hurried preparations for my departure. (y onnet and shawl eing on, and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, & descended. But & might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry# and & had still a considera le time to wait for the phaeton. "t length it came to the door, and & was off/ ut, oh, what a dreary journey was that7 how utterly different from my former passages homewards7 Being too late for the last coach to ---, & had to hire a ca for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills. &t was half-past ten efore & reached home. They were not in ed. (y mother and sister oth met me in the passage1sad1silent1pale7 & was so much shocked and terror-stricken that & could not speak, to ask the information & so much longed yet dreaded to o tain. 6"gnes7* said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion. 60h, "gnes7* cried (ary, and urst into tears. 6.ow is he;* & asked, gasping for the answer.

68ead7* &t was the reply & had anticipated/ ut the shock seemed none the less tremendous.

CHAPTER 6I6THE )ETTER (y father*s mortal remains had een consigned to the tom # and we, with sad faces and som re garments, sat lingering over the frugal reakfast-ta le, revolving plans for our future life. (y mother*s strong mind had not given way eneath even this affliction/ her spirit, though crushed, was not roken. (ary*s wish was that & should go ack to .orton !odge, and that our mother should come and live with her and (r. ,ichardson at the vicarage/ she affirmed that he wished it no less than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to enefit all parties# for my mother*s society and e+perience would e of inestima le value to them, and they would do all they could to make her happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail/ my mother was determined not to go. 9ot that she $uestioned, for a moment, the kind wishes and intentions of her daughter# ut she affirmed that so long as God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn her own livelihood, and e chargea le to no one# whether her dependence would e felt as a urden or not. &f she could afford to reside as a lodger in1vicarage, she would choose that house efore all others as the place of her a ode# ut not eing so circumstanced, she would never come under its roof, e+cept as an occasional visitor/ unless sickness or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age or infirmity made her incapa le of maintaining herself. 69o, (ary,* said she, 6if ,ichardson and you have anything to spare, you must lay it aside for your family# and "gnes and & must gather honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, & have not forgotten my accomplishments. God willing, & will check this vain repining,* she said, while the tears coursed one another down her cheeks in spite of her efforts# ut she wiped them away, and resolutely shaking ack her head, continued, 6& will e+ert myself, and look out for a small house, commodiously situated in some populous ut healthy district, where we will take a few young ladies to oard and educate1if we can get them1and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can manage to instruct. Your father*s relations and old friends will e a le to send us some pupils, or to assist us with their recommendations, no dou t/ & shall not apply to my own. %hat say you to it, "gnes; will you e willing to leave your present situation and try;* 6Iuite willing, mamma# and the money & have saved will do to furnish the house. &t shall e taken from the ank directly.* 6%hen it is wanted/ we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries first.* (ary offered to lend the little she possessed# ut my mother declined it, saying that we must egin on an economical plan# and she hoped that the whole or part of mine, added to what we could get y the sale of the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside for her since the de ts were paid,

would e sufficient to last us till =hristmas# when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united la ours. &t was finally settled that this should e our plan# and that in$uiries and preparations should immediately e set on foot# and while my mother usied herself with these, & should return to .orton !odge at the close of my four weeks* vacation, and give notice for my final departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our school. %e were discussing these affairs on the morning & have mentioned, a out a fortnight after my father*s death, when a letter was rought in for my mother, on eholding which the colour mounted to her face1lately pale enough with an+ious watchings and e+cessive sorrow. 6-rom my father7* murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover. &t was many years since she had heard from any of her own relations efore. 9aturally wondering what the letter might contain, & watched her countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her ite her lip and knit her rows as if in anger. %hen she had done, she somewhat irreverently cast it on the ta le, saying with a scornful smile,16Your grandpapa has een so kind as to write to me. .e says he has no dou t & have long repented of my ?unfortunate marriage,@ and if & will only acknowledge this, and confess & was wrong in neglecting his advice, and that & have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of me once again1if that e possi le after my long degradation1and remem er my girls in his will. Get my desk, "gnes, and send these things away/ & will answer the letter directly. But first, as & may e depriving you oth of a legacy, it is just that & should tell you what & mean to say. & shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that & can regret the irth of my daughters 2who have een the pride of my life, and are likely to e the comfort of my old age4, or the thirty years & have passed in the company of my est and dearest friend#1 that, had our misfortunes een three times as great as they were 2unless they had een of my ringing on4, & should still the more rejoice to have shared them with your father, and administered what consolation & was a le# and, had his sufferings in illness een ten times what they wore, & could not regret having watched over and la oured to relieve them#1that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials would no dou t have come upon him still# while & am egotist enough to imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so well/ not that & am superior to the rest, ut & was made for him, and he for me# and & can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the other, than & can the privilege of having een his nurse in sickness, and his comfort in affliction. 6%ill this do, children;1or shall & say we are all very sorry for what has happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they had never een orn# ut since they have had that misfortune, they will e thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will e kind enough to estow;* 0f course, we oth applauded our mother*s resolution# (ary cleared away the reakfast things# & rought the desk# the letter was $uickly written and despatched# and, from that day, we heard no more of our grandfather, till we saw

his death announced in the newspaper a considera le time after1all his worldly possessions, of course, eing left to our wealthy unknown cousins.

CHAPTER 66THE (ARE/E)) " house in "---, the fashiona le watering-place, was hired for our seminary# and a promise of two or three pupils was o tained to commence with. & returned to .orton !odge a out the middle of 5uly, leaving my mother to conclude the argain for the house, to o tain more pupils, to sell off the furniture of our old a ode, and to fit out the new one. %e often pity the poor, ecause they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives, and necessity o liges them to la our through their severest afflictions/ ut is not active employment the est remedy for overwhelming sorrow1the surest antidote for despair; &t may e a rough comforter/ it may seem hard to e harassed with the cares of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments# to e goaded to la our when the heart is ready to reak, and the ve+ed spirit implores for rest only to weep in silence/ ut is not la our etter than the rest we covet; and are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual rooding over the great affliction that oppresses us; Besides, we cannot have cares, and an+ieties, and toil, without hope1if it e ut the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful project, or escaping some further annoyance. "t any rate, & was glad my mother had so much employment for every faculty of her action-loving frame. 0ur kind neigh ours lamented that she, once so e+alted in wealth and station, should e reduced to such e+tremity in her time of sorrow# ut & am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she een left in affluence, with li erty to remain in that house, the scene of her early happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent her from incessantly rooding over and lamenting her ereavement. & will not dilate upon the feelings with which & left the old house, the wellknown garden, the little village church1then dou ly dear to me, ecause my father, who, for thirty years, had taught and prayed within its walls, lay slum ering now eneath its flags1and the old are hills, delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales etween, smiling in green wood and sparkling water1the house where & was orn, the scene of all my early associations, the place where throughout life my earthly affections had een centred#1and left them to return no more7 True, & was going ack to .orton !odge, where, amid many evils, one source of pleasure yet remained/ ut it was pleasure mingled with e+cessive pain# and my stay, alas7 was limited to si+ weeks. "nd even of that precious time, day after day slipped y and & did not see him/ e+cept at church, & never saw him for a fortnight after my return. &t seemed a long time to me/ and, as & was often out with my ram ling pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and disappointments would ensue# and then, & would say to my own heart, 6.ere is a convincing proof1if you would ut have the sense to see it, or the candour to acknowledge it1that he does not care for you. &f he only thought half as much a out you as you do a out him, he would have contrived to meet you many times ere this/ you must know that, y consulting your own feelings.

Therefore, have done with this nonsense/ you have no ground for hope/ dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the dull lank life that lies efore you. You might have known such happiness was not for you.* But & saw him at last. .e came suddenly upon me as & was crossing a field in returning from a visit to 9ancy Brown, which & had taken the opportunity of paying while (atilda (urray was riding her matchless mare. .e must have heard of the heavy loss & had sustained/ he e+pressed no sympathy, offered no condolence/ ut almost the first words he uttered were,16.ow is your mother;* "nd this was no matter-of-course $uestion, for & never told him that & had a mother/ he must have learned the fact from others, if he knew it at all# and, esides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching, uno trusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the in$uiry. & thanked him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could e e+pected. 6%hat will she do;* was the ne+t $uestion. (any would have deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply# ut such an idea never entered my head, and & gave a rief ut plain statement of my mother*s plans and prospects. 6Then you will leave this place shortly;* said he. 6Yes, in a month.* .e paused a minute, as if in thought. %hen he spoke again, & hoped it would e to e+press his concern at my departure# ut it was only to say,16& should think you will e willing enough to go;* 6Yes1for some things,* & replied.

+(or so,e things onlyI %on#er %h"t shoul# ,"ke you regret it-.
& was annoyed at this in some degree# ecause it em arrassed me/ & had only one reason for regretting it# and that was a profound secret, which he had no usiness to trou le me a out.

+/hy,. s"i# I+%hy shoul# you su$$ose th"t I #islike the $l"ce-.
6You told me so yourself,* was the decisive reply. 6You said, at least, that you could not live contentedly, without a friend# and that you had no friend here, and no possi ility of making one1and, esides, & know you must dislike it.* 6But if you remem er rightly, & said, or meant to say, & could not live contentedly without a friend in the world/ & was not so unreasona le as to re$uire one always near me. & think & could e happy in a house full of enemies, if1* ut no# that sentence must not e continued1& paused, and hastily added,16"nd, esides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.* 6%ill you regret to part with (iss (urray, your sole remaining pupil and companion;*

6& dare say & shall in some degree/ it was not without sorrow & parted with her sister.* 6& can imagine that.* 6%ell, (iss (atilda is $uite as good1 etter in one respect.* 6%hat is that;* 6'he*s honest.* 6"nd the other is not;* 6& should not call her dishonest# ut it must e confessed she*s a little artful.* 6"rtful is she;1& saw she was giddy and vain1and now,* he added, after a pause, 6& can well elieve she was artful too# ut so e+cessively so as to assume an aspect of e+treme simplicity and unguarded openness. Yes,* continued he, musingly, 6that accounts for some little things that pu33led me a trifle efore.* "fter that, he turned the conversation to more general su jects. .e did not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates/ he had certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went ack and disappeared down (oss !ane, the entrance of which we had passed some time efore. "ssuredly & did not regret this circumstance/ if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last1that he was no longer walking y my side, and that that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. .e had not reathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet & had een supremely happy. To e near him, to hear him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to e so spoken to1capa le of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse1was enough. 6Yes, )dward %eston, & could indeed e happy in a house full of enemies, if & had ut one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully loved me# and if that friend were you1though we might e far apart1seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet1though toil, and trou le, and ve+ation might surround me, still1it would e too much happiness for me to dream of7 Yet who can tell,* said & within myself, as & proceeded up the park,16who can tell what this one month may ring forth; & have lived nearly three-and-twenty years, and & have suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet# is it likely my life all through will e so clouded; &s it not possi le that God may hear my prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some eams of heaven*s sunshine yet; %ill .e entirely deny to me those lessings which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor acknowledge them when received; (ay & not still hope and trust; & did hope and trust for a while/ ut, alas, alas7 the time e ed away/ one week followed another, and, e+cepting one distant glimpse and two transient meetings1during which scarcely anything was said1while & was walking with (iss (atilda, & saw nothing of him/ e+cept, of course, at church. "nd now, the last 'unday was come, and the last service. & was often on the point of melting into tears during the sermon1the last & was to hear from him/ the est & should hear from anyone, & was well assured. &t was over1the congregation were departing# and & must follow. & had then seen him, and heard

his voice, too, pro a ly for the last time. &n the churchyard, (atilda was pounced upon y the two (isses Green. They had many in$uiries to make a out her sister, and & know not what esides. & only wished they would have done, that we might hasten ack to .orton !odge/ & longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some se$uestered nook in the grounds, that & might deliver myself up to my feelings1to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain delusions. 0nly this once, and then adieu to fruitless dreaming1thenceforth, only so er, solid, sad reality should occupy my mind. But while & thus resolved, a low voice close eside me said16& suppose you are going this week, (iss Grey;* 6Yes,* & replied. & was very much startled# and had & een at all hysterically inclined, & certainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God, & was not. 6%ell,* said (r. %eston, 6& want to id you good- ye1it is not likely & shall see you again efore you go.* 6Good- ye, (r. %eston,* & said. 0h, how & struggled to say it calmly7 & gave him my hand. .e retained it a few seconds in his. 6&t is possi le we may meet again,* said he# 6will it e of any conse$uence to you whether we do or not;* 6Yes, & should e very glad to see you again.* & could say no less. .e kindly pressed my hand, and went. 9ow, & was happy again1though more inclined to urst into tears than ever. &f & had een forced to speak at that moment, a succession of so s would have inevita ly ensued# and as it was, & could not keep the water out of my eyes. & walked along with (iss (urray, turning aside my face, and neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she awled out that & was either deaf or stupid# and then 2having recovered my self-possession4, as one awakened from a fit of a straction, & suddenly looked up and asked what she had een saying.

CHAPTER 66ITHE SCH ) & left .orton !odge, and went to join my mother in our new a ode at "---. & found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful, though su dued and so er, in her general demeanour. %e had only three oarders and half a do3en day-pupils to commence with# ut y due care and diligence we hoped ere long to increase the num er of oth. & set myself with efitting energy to discharge the duties of this new mode of life. & call it new, for there was, indeed, a considera le difference etween working with my mother in a school of our own, and working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon y old and young# and for the first few weeks & was y no means unhappy. 6&t is possi le we may meet again,* and 6will it e of any conse$uence to you whether we do or not;*1Those words still rang in my ear and rested on my heart/ they were my secret solace and support. 6& shall see him again.1.e will come# or he will write.* 9o promise, in fact, was too right or too e+travagant for .ope to whisper in my ear. & did not elieve half of what she told me/ & pretended to laugh at it all# ut & was far more credulous than

& myself supposed# otherwise, why did my heart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see her; and why was & out of humour for the rest of the day, ecause it proved to e a music-master come to offer his services to our school; and what stopped my reath for a moment, when the postman having rought a couple of letters, my mother said, 6.ere, "gnes, this is for you,* and threw one of them to me; and what made the hot lood rush into my face when & saw it was directed in a gentleman*s hand; and why1oh7 why did that cold, sickening sense of disappointment fall upon me, when & had torn open the cover and found it was only a letter from (ary, which, for some reason or other, her hus and had directed for her; %as it then come to this1that & should e disappointed to receive a letter from my only sister/ and ecause it was not written y a comparative stranger; 8ear (ary7 and she had written it so kindly1and thinking & should e so pleased to have it71& was not worthy to read it7 "nd & elieve, in my indignation against myself, & should have put it aside till & had schooled myself into a etter frame of mind, and was ecome more deserving of the honour and privilege of its perusal/ ut there was my mother looking on, and wishful to know what news it contained# so & read it and delivered it to her, and then went into the schoolroom to attend to the pupils/ ut amidst the cares of copies and sums1in the intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving derelictions of duty there, & was inwardly taking myself to task with far sterner severity. 6%hat a fool you must e,* said my head to my heart, or my sterner to my softer self#16how could you ever dream that he would write to you; %hat grounds have you for such a hope1or that he will see you, or give himself any trou le a out you1or even think of you again;* 6%hat grounds;*1and then .ope set efore me that last, short interview, and repeated the words & had so faithfully treasured in my memory. 6%ell, and what was there in that;1%ho ever hung his hopes upon so frail a twig; %hat was there in those words that any common ac$uaintance might not say to another; 0f course, it was possi le you might meet again/ he might have said so if you had een going to 9ew Dealand# ut that did not imply any intention of seeing you1 and then, as to the $uestion that followed, anyone might ask that/ and how did you answer;1(erely with a stupid, commonplace reply, such as you would have given to (aster (urray, or anyone else you had een on tolera ly civil terms with.* 6But, then,* persisted .ope, 6the tone and manner in which he spoke.* 60h, that is nonsense7 he always speaks impressively# and at that moment there were the Greens and (iss (atilda (urray just efore, and other people passing y, and he was o liged to stand close eside you, and to speak very low, unless he wished every ody to hear what he said, which1though it was nothing at all particular1of course, he would rather not.* But then, a ove all, that emphatic, yet gentle pressure of the hand, which seemed to say, 6Trust me#* and many other things esides1too delightful, almost too flattering, to e repeated even to one*s self. 6)gregious folly1too a surd to re$uire contradiction1mere inventions of the imagination, which you ought to e ashamed of. &f you would

ut consider your own unattractive e+terior, your unamia le reserve, your foolish diffidence1which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and perhaps illtempered too#1if you had ut rightly considered these from the eginning, you would never have har oured such presumptuous thoughts/ and now that you have een so foolish, pray repent and amend, and let us have no more of it7* & cannot say that & implicitly o eyed my own injunctions/ ut such reasoning as this ecame more and more effective as time wore on, and nothing was seen or heard of (r. %eston# until, at last, & gave up hoping, for even my heart acknowledged it was all in vain. But still, & would think of him/ & would cherish his image in my mind# and treasure every word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain# and rood over his e+cellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all & had seen, heard, or imagined respecting him. 6"gnes, this sea air and change of scene do you no good, & think/ & never saw you look so wretched. &t must e that you sit too much, and allow the cares of the schoolroom to worry you. You must learn to take things easy, and to e more active and cheerful# you must take e+ercise whenever you can get it, and leave the most tiresome duties to me/ they will only serve to e+ercise my patience, and, perhaps, try my temper a little.* 'o said my mother, as we sat at work one morning during the )aster holidays. & assured her that my employments were not at all oppressive# that & was well# or, if there was anything amiss, it would e gone as soon as the trying months of spring were over/ when summer came & should e as strong and hearty as she could wish to see me/ ut inwardly her o servation startled me. & knew my strength was declining, my appetite had failed, and & was grown listless and desponding#1and if, indeed, he could never care for me, and & could never see him more1if & was for idden to minister to his happiness1for idden, for ever, to taste the joys of love, to less, and to e lessed1then, life must e a urden, and if my heavenly -ather would call me away, & should e glad to rest. But it would not do to die and leave my mother. 'elfish, unworthy daughter, to forget her for a moment7 %as not her happiness committed in a great measure to my charge;1and the welfare of our young pupils too; 'hould & shrink from the work that God had set efore me, ecause it was not fitted to my taste; 8id not .e know est what & should do, and where & ought to la our;1and should & long to $uit .is service efore & had finished my task, and e+pect to enter into .is rest without having la oured to earn it; 69o# y .is help & will arise and address myself diligently to my appointed duty. &f happiness in this world is not for me, & will endeavour to promote the welfare of those around me, and my reward shall e hereafter.* 'o said & in my heart# and from that hour & only permitted my thoughts to wander to )dward %eston1or at least to dwell upon him now and then1as a treat for rare occasions/ and, whether it was really the approach of summer or the effect of these good resolutions, or the lapse of time, or all together, tran$uillity of mind was soon restored# and odily health and vigour egan likewise, slowly, ut surely, to return.

)arly in 5une, & received a letter from !ady "sh y, late (iss (urray. 'he had written to me twice or thrice efore, from the different stages of her ridal tour, always in good spirits, and professing to e very happy. & wondered every time that she had not forgotten me, in the midst of so much gaiety and variety of scene. "t length, however, there was a pause# and it seemed she had forgotten me, for upwards of seven months passed away and no letter. 0f course, & did not reak my heart a out that, though & often wondered how she was getting on# and when this last epistle so une+pectedly arrived, & was glad enough to receive it. &t was dated from "sh y Park, where she was come to settle down at last, having previously divided her time etween the continent and the metropolis. 'he made many apologies for having neglected me so long, assured me she had not forgotten me, and had often intended to write, Ac. Ac., ut had always een prevented y something. 'he acknowledged that she had een leading a very dissipated life, and & should think her very wicked and very thoughtless# ut, notwithstanding that, she thought a great deal, and, among other things, that she should vastly like to see me. 6%e have een several days here already,* wrote she. 6%e have not a single friend with us, and are likely to e very dull. You know & never had a fancy for living with my hus and like two turtles in a nest, were he the most delightful creature that ever wore a coat# so do take pity upon me and come. & suppose your (idsummer holidays commence in 5une, the same as other people*s# therefore you cannot plead want of time# and you must and shall come1in fact, & shall die if you don*t. & want you to visit me as a friend, and stay a long time. There is no ody with me, as & told you efore, ut 'ir Thomas and old !ady "sh y/ ut you needn*t mind them1they*ll trou le us ut little with their company. "nd you shall have a room to yourself, whenever you like to retire to it, and plenty of ooks to read when my company is not sufficiently amusing. & forget whether you like a ies# if you do, you may have the pleasure of seeing mine1the most charming child in the world, no dou t# and all the more so, that & am not trou led with nursing it1& was determined & wouldn*t e othered with that. :nfortunately, it is a girl, and 'ir Thomas has never forgiven me/ ut, however, if you will only come, & promise you shall e its governess as soon as it can speak# and you shall ring it up in the way it should go, and make a etter woman of it than its mamma. "nd you shall see my poodle, too/ a splendid little charmer imported from Paris/ and two fine &talian paintings of great value1& forget the artist. 8ou tless you will e a le to discover prodigious eauties in them, which you must point out to me, as & only admire y hearsay# and many elegant curiosities esides, which & purchased at ,ome and elsewhere# and, finally, you shall see my new home1the splendid house and grounds & used to covet so greatly. "las7 how far the promise of anticipation e+ceeds the pleasure of possession7 There*s a fine sentiment7 & assure you & am ecome $uite a grave old matron/ pray come, if it e only to witness the wonderful change. %rite y return of post, and tell me when your vacation commences, and say that you will come the day after, and stay till the day efore it closes1in mercy to

6Yours affectionately, 6,osalie "sh y.*

& showed this strange epistle to my mother, and consulted her on what & ought to do. 'he advised me to go# and & went1willing enough to see !ady "sh y, and her a y, too, and to do anything & could to enefit her, y consolation or advice# for & imagined she must e unhappy, or she would not have applied to me thus1 ut feeling, as may readily e conceived, that, in accepting the invitation, & made a great sacrifice for her, and did violence to my feelings in many ways, instead of eing delighted with the honoura le distinction of eing entreated y the aronet*s lady to visit her as a friend. .owever, & determined my visit should e only for a few days at most# and & will not deny that & derived some consolation from the idea that, as "sh y Park was not very far from .orton, & might possi ly see (r. %eston, or, at least, hear something a out him. =."PT), JJ&&1T.) <&'&T "sh y Park was certainly a very delightful residence. The mansion was stately without, commodious and elegant within# the park was spacious and eautiful, chiefly on account of its magnificent old trees, its stately herds of deer, its road sheet of water, and the ancient woods that stretched eyond it/ for there was no roken ground to give variety to the landscape, and ut very little of that undulating swell which adds so greatly to the charm of park scenery. "nd so, this was the place ,osalie (urray had so longed to call her own, that she must have a share of it, on whatever terms it might e offered1whatever price was to e paid for the title of mistress, and whoever was to e her partner in the honour and liss of such a possession7 %ell & am not disposed to censure her now. 'he received me very kindly# and, though & was a poor clergyman*s daughter, a governess, and a schoolmistress, she welcomed me with unaffected pleasure to her home# and1what surprised me rather1took some pains to make my visit agreea le. & could see, it is true, that she e+pected me to e greatly struck with the magnificence that surrounded her# and, & confess, & was rather annoyed at her evident efforts to reassure me, and prevent me from eing overwhelmed y so much grandeur1too much awed at the idea of encountering her hus and and mother-in-law, or too much ashamed of my own hum le appearance. & was not ashamed of it at all# for, though plain, & had taken good care not to sha y or mean, and should have een pretty considera ly at my ease, if my condescending hostess had not taken such manifest pains to make me so# and, as for the magnificence that surrounded her, nothing that met my eyes struck me or affected me half so much as her own altered appearance. %hether from the influence of fashiona le dissipation, or some other evil, a space of little more than twelve months had had the effect that might e e+pected from as many

years, in reducing the plumpness of her form, the freshness of her comple+ion, the vivacity of her movements, and the e+u erance of her spirits. & wished to know if she was unhappy# ut & felt it was not my province to in$uire/ & might endeavour to win her confidence# ut, if she chose to conceal her matrimonial cares from me, & would trou le her with no o trusive $uestions. &, therefore, at first, confined myself to a few general in$uiries a out her health and welfare, and a few commendations on the eauty of the park, and of the little girl that should have een a oy/ a small delicate infant of seven or eight weeks old, whom its mother seemed to regard with no remarka le degree of interest or affection, though full as much as & e+pected her to show. 'hortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my room and see that & had everything & wanted# it was a small, unpretending, ut sufficiently comforta le apartment. %hen & descended thence1having divested myself of all travelling encum rances, and arranged my toilet with due consideration for the feelings of my lady hostess, she conducted me herself to the room & was to occupy when & chose to e alone, or when she was engaged with visitors, or o liged to e with her mother-in-law, or otherwise prevented, as she said, from enjoying the pleasure of my society. &t was a $uiet, tidy little sitting-room# and & was not sorry to e provided with such a har our of refuge. 6"nd some time,* said she, 6& will show you the li rary/ & never e+amined its shelves, ut, & daresay, it is full of wise ooks# and you may go and urrow among them whenever you please. "nd now you shall have some tea1it will soon e dinner-time, ut & thought, as you were accustomed to dine at one, you would perhaps like etter to have a cup of tea a out this time, and to dine when we lunch/ and then, you know, you can have your tea in this room, and that will save you from having to dine with !ady "sh y and 'ir Thomas/ which would e rather awkward1at least, not awkward, ut rather1a1you know what & mean. & thought you mightn*t like it so well1especially as we may have other ladies and gentlemen to dine with us occasionally.* 6=ertainly,* said &, 6& would much rather have it as you say, and, if you have no o jection, & should prefer having all my meals in this room.* 6%hy so;* 6Because, & imagine, it would e more agreea le to !ady "sh y and 'ir Thomas.* 69othing of the kind.* 6"t any rate it would e more agreea le to me.* 'he made some faint o jections, ut soon conceded# and & could see that the proposal was a considera le relief to her. 69ow, come into the drawing-room,* said she. 6There*s the dressing ell# ut & won*t go yet/ it*s no use dressing when there*s no one to see you# and & want to have a little discourse.*

The drawing-room was certainly an imposing apartment, and very elegantly furnished# ut & saw its young mistress glance towards me as we entered, as if to notice how & was impressed y the spectacle, and accordingly & determined to preserve an aspect of stony indifference, as if & saw nothing at all remarka le. But this was only for a moment/ immediately conscience whispered, 6%hy should & disappoint her to save my pride; 9o1rather let me sacrifice my pride to give her a little innocent gratification.* "nd & honestly looked round, and told her it was a no le room, and very tastefully furnished. 'he said little, ut & saw she was pleased. 'he showed me her fat -rench poodle, that lay curled up on a silk cushion, and the two fine &talian paintings/ which, however, she would not give me time to e+amine, ut, saying & must look at them some other day, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had purchased in Geneva# and then she took me round the room to point out sundry articles of vertu she had rought from &taly/ an elegant little timepiece, and several usts, small graceful figures, and vases, all eautifully carved in white mar le. 'he spoke of these with animation, and heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure/ that soon, however, vanished, and was followed y a melancholy sigh# as if in consideration of the insufficiency of all such au les to the happiness of the human heart, and their woeful ina ility to supply its insatiate demands. Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious easychair that stood opposite1not efore the fire, ut efore a wide open window# for it was summer, e it remem ered# a sweet, warm evening in the latter half of 5une. & sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay efore me, rich in verdure and foliage, and asking in yellow sunshine, relieved y the long shadows of declining day. But & must take advantage of this pause/ & had in$uiries to make, and, like the su stance of a lady*s postscript, the most important must come last. 'o & egan with asking after (r. and (rs. (urray, and (iss (atilda and the young gentlemen. & was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious# and that he would not give up his choice wines, and his su stantial dinners and suppers, and had $uarrelled with his physician, ecause the latter had dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so freely# that mamma and the rest were well. (atilda was still wild and reckless, ut she had got a fashiona le governess, and was considera ly improved in her manners, and soon to e introduced to the world# and 5ohn and =harles 2now at home for the holidays4 were, y all accounts, 6fine, old, unruly, mischievous oys.* 6"nd how are the other people getting on;* said &16the Greens, for instance;* 6"h7 (r. Green is heart- roken, you know,* replied she, with a languid smile/ 6he hasn*t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, & suppose. .e*s doomed to e an old achelor# and his sisters are doing their est to get married.* 6"nd the (elthams;*

60h, they*re jogging on as usual, & suppose/ ut & know very little a out any of them1e+cept .arry,* said she, lushing slightly, and smiling again. 6& saw a great deal of him while we were in !ondon# for, as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of visiting his rother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever & went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn. You needn*t look so shocked, (iss Grey# & was very discreet, & assure you, ut, you know, one can*t help eing admired. Poor fellow7 .e was not my only worshipper# though he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, & think, the most devoted among them all. "nd that detesta le1ahem1and 'ir Thomas chose to take offence at him1or my profuse e+penditure, or something1& don*t e+actly know what1and hurried me down to the country at a moment*s notice# where &*m to play the hermit, & suppose, for life.* "nd she it her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she had once so coveted to call her own. 6"nd (r. .atfield,* said &, 6what is ecome of him;* "gain she rightened up, and answered gaily160h7 he made up to an elderly spinster, and married her, not long since# weighing her heavy purse against her faded charms, and e+pecting to find that solace in gold which was denied him in love1ha, ha7* 6%ell, and & think that*s all1e+cept (r. %eston/ what is he doing;* 6& don*t know, &*m sure. .e*s gone from .orton.* 6.ow long since; and where is he gone to;* 6& know nothing a out him,* replied she, yawning16e+cept that he went a out a month ago1& never asked where* 2& would have asked whether it was to a living or merely another curacy, ut thought it etter not4# 6and the people made a great rout a out his leaving,* continued she, 6much to (r. .atfield*s displeasure# for .atfield didn*t like him, ecause he had too much influence with the common people, and ecause he was not sufficiently tracta le and su missive to him1 and for some other unpardona le sins, & don*t know what. But now & positively must go and dress/ the second ell will ring directly, and if & come to dinner in this guise, & shall never hear the end of it from !ady "sh y. &t*s a strange thing one can*t e mistress in one*s own house7 5ust ring the ell, and &*ll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some tea. 0nly think of that intolera le woman1* 6%ho1your maid;* 69o#1my mother-in-law1and my unfortunate mistake7 &nstead of letting her take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when & married, & was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct the affairs of the house for me# ecause, in the first place, & hoped we should spend the greater part of the year, in town, and in the second place, eing so young and ine+perienced, & was frightened at the idea of having a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order, and parties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and & thought she might assist me with her e+perience# never dreaming she would prove a usurper, a tyrant, an incu us, a spy, and everything else that*s detesta le. & wish she was dead7*

'he then turned to give her orders to the footman, who had een standing olt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had heard the latter part of her animadversions# and, of course, made his own reflections upon them, notwithstanding the infle+i le, wooden countenance he thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room. 0n my remarking afterwards that he must have heard her, she replied160h, no matter7 & never care a out the footmen# they*re mere automatons/ it*s nothing to them what their superiors say or do# they won*t dare to repeat it# and as to what they think1if they presume to think at all1of course, no ody cares for that. &t would e a pretty thing indeed, it we were to e tongue-tied y our servants7* 'o saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my way ack to my sitting-room, where, in due time, & was served with a cup of tea. "fter that, & sat musing on !ady "sh y*s past and present condition# and on what little information & had o tained respecting (r. %eston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing anything more of him throughout my $uiet, dra colour life/ which, henceforth, seemed to offer no alternative etween positive rainy days, and days of dull grey clouds without downfall. "t length, however, & egan to weary of my thoughts, and to wish & knew where to find the li rary my hostess had spoken of# and to wonder whether & was to remain there doing nothing till ed-time. "s & was not rich enough to possess a watch, & could not tell how time was passing, e+cept y o serving the slowly lengthening shadows from the window# which presented a side view, including a corner of the park, a clump of trees whose topmost ranches had een coloni3ed y an innumera le company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive wooden gate/ no dou t communicating with the sta le-yard, as a road carriage-road swept up to it from the park. The shadow of this wall soon took possession of the whole of the ground as far as & could see, forcing the golden sunlight to retreat inch y inch, and at last take refuge in the very tops of the trees. )re long, even they were left in shadow1the shadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself# and, in sympathy for the usy citi3ens of the rookery, & regretted to see their ha itation, so lately athed in glorious light, reduced to the som re, work-a-day hue of the lower world, or of my own world within. -or a moment, such irds as soared a ove the rest might still receive the lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sa le plumage the hue and rilliance of deep red gold# at last, that too departed. Twilight came stealing on# the rooks ecame more $uiet# & ecame more weary, and wished & were going home to-morrow. "t length it grew dark# and & was thinking of ringing for a candle, and etaking myself to ed, when my hostess appeared, with many apologies for having neglected me so long, and laying all the lame upon that 6nasty old woman,* as she called her mother-in-law. 6&f & didn*t sit with her in the drawing-room while 'ir Thomas is taking his wine,* said she, 6she would never forgive me# and then, if & leave the room the instant he comes1as & have done once or twice1it is an unpardona le offence against her dear Thomas. 'he never showed such disrespect to her hus and/ and as for

affection, wives never think of that now-a-days, she supposes/ ut things were different in her time1as if there was any good to e done y staying in the room, when he does nothing ut grum le and scold when he*s in a ad humour, talk disgusting nonsense when he*s in a good one, and go to sleep on the sofa when he*s too stupid for either# which is most fre$uently the case now, when he has nothing to do ut to sot over his wine.* 6But could you not try to occupy his mind with something etter# and engage him to give up such ha its; &*m sure you have powers of persuasion, and $ualifications for amusing a gentleman, which many ladies would e glad to possess.* 6"nd so you think & would lay myself out for his amusement7 9o/ that*s not my idea of a wife. &t*s the hus and*s part to please the wife, not hers to please him# and if he isn*t satisfied with her as she is1and thankful to possess her too1he isn*t worthy of her, that*s all. "nd as for persuasion, & assure you & shan*t trou le myself with that/ &*ve enough to do to ear with him as he is, without attempting to work a reform. But &*m sorry & left you so long alone, (iss Grey. .ow have you passed the time;* 6=hiefly in watching the rooks.* 6(ercy, how dull you must have een7 & really must show you the li rary# and you must ring for everything you want, just as you would in an inn, and make yourself comforta le. & have selfish reasons for wishing to make you happy, ecause & want you to stay with me, and not fulfil your horrid threat of running away in a day or two.* 6%ell, don*t let me keep you out of the drawing-room any longer to-night, for at present & am tired and wish to go to ed.* =."PT), JJ&&&1T.) P",> & came down a little efore eight, ne+t morning, as & knew y the striking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of reakfast. & waited a ove an hour efore it came, still vainly longing for access to the li rary# and, after that lonely repast was concluded, & waited again a out an hour and a half in great suspense and discomfort, uncertain what to do. "t length !ady "sh y came to id me good-morning. 'he informed me she had only just reakfasted, and now wanted me to take an early walk with her in the park. 'he asked how long & had een up, and on receiving my answer, e+pressed the deepest regret, and again promised to show me the li rary. & suggested she had etter do so at once, and then there would e no further trou le either with remem ering or forgetting. 'he complied, on condition that & would not think of reading, or othering with the ooks now# for she wanted to show me the gardens, and take a walk in the park with me, efore it ecame too hot for enjoyment# which, indeed, was nearly the case already. 0f course & readily assented# and we took our walk accordingly. "s we were strolling in the park, talking of what my companion had seen and heard during her travelling e+perience, a gentleman on horse ack rode up and passed us. "s he turned, in passing, and stared me full in the face, & had a good

opportunity of seeing what he was like. .e was tall, thin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale face, ut somewhat lotchy, and disagreea ly red a out the eyelids, plain features, and a general appearance of languor and flatness, relieved y a sinister e+pression in the mouth and the dull, soulless eyes. 6& detest that man7* whispered !ady "sh y, with itter emphasis, as he slowly trotted y. 6%ho is it;* & asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of her hus and. 6'ir Thomas "sh y,* she replied, with dreary composure. 6"nd do you detest him, (iss (urray;* said &, for & was too much shocked to remem er her name at the moment. 6Yes, & do, (iss Grey, and despise him too# and if you knew him you would not lame me.* 6But you knew what he was efore you married him.* 69o# & only thought so/ & did not half know him really. & know you warned me against it, and & wish & had listened to you/ ut it*s too late to regret that now. "nd esides, mamma ought to have known etter than either of us, and she never said anything against it1$uite the contrary. "nd then & thought he adored me, and would let me have my own way/ he did pretend to do so at first, ut now he does not care a it a out me. Yet & should not care for that/ he might do as he pleased, if & might only e free to amuse myself and to stay in !ondon, or have a few friends down here/ ut he will do as he pleases, and & must e a prisoner and a slave. The moment he saw & could enjoy myself without him, and that others knew my value etter than himself, the selfish wretch egan to accuse me of co$uetry and e+travagance# and to a use .arry (eltham, whose shoes he was not worthy to clean. "nd then he must needs have me down in the country, to lead the life of a nun, lest & should dishonour him or ring him to ruin# as if he had not een ten times worse every way, with his etting- ook, and his gaming-ta le, and his opera-girls, and his !ady This and (rs. That1yes, and his ottles of wine, and glasses of randy-and-water too7 0h, & would give ten thousand worlds to e (ss (urray again7 &t is too ad to feel life, health, and eauty wasting away, unfelt and unenjoyed, for such a rute as that7* e+claimed she, fairly ursting into tears in the itterness of her ve+ation. 0f course, & pitied her e+ceedingly# as well for her false idea of happiness and disregard of duty, as for the wretched partner with whom her fate was linked. & said what & could to comfort her, and offered such counsels as & thought she most re$uired/ advising her, first, y gentle reasoning, y kindness, e+ample, and persuasion, to try to ameliorate her hus and# and then, when she had done all she could, if she still found him incorrigi le, to endeavour to a stract herself from him1to wrap herself up in her own integrity, and trou le herself as little a out him as possi le. & e+horted her to seek consolation in doing her duty to God and man, to put her trust in .eaven, and solace herself with the care and nurture of

her little daughter# assuring her she would e amply rewarded y witnessing its progress in strength and wisdom, and receiving its genuine affection. 6But & can*t devote myself entirely to a child,* said she# 6it may die1which is not at all impro a le.* 6But, with care, many a delicate infant has ecome a strong man or woman.* 6But it may grow so intolera ly like its father that & shall hate it.* 6That is not likely# it is a little girl, and strongly resem les its mother.* 69o matter# & should like it etter if it were a oy1only that its father will leave it no inheritance that he can possi ly s$uander away. %hat pleasure can & have in seeing a girl grow up to eclipse me, and enjoy those pleasures that & am for ever de arred from; But supposing & could e so generous as to take delight in this, still it is only a child# and & can*t centre all my hopes in a child/ that is only one degree etter than devoting oneself to a dog. "nd as for all the wisdom and goodness you have een trying to instil into me1that is all very right and proper, & daresay, and if & were some twenty years older, & might fructify y it/ ut people must enjoy themselves when they are young# and if others won*t let them1why, they must hate them for it7* 6The est way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right and hate no ody. The end of ,eligion is not to teach us how to die, ut how to live# and the earlier you ecome wise and good, the more of happiness you secure. "nd now, !ady "sh y, & have one more piece of advice to offer you, which is, that you will not make an enemy of your mother-in-law. 8on*t get into the way of holding her at arms* length, and regarding her with jealous distrust. & never saw her, ut & have heard good as well as evil respecting her# and & imagine that, though cold and haughty in her general demeanour, and even e+acting in her re$uirements, she has strong affections for those who can reach them# and, though so lindly attached to her son, she is not without good principles, or incapa le of hearing reason. &f you would ut conciliate her a little, and adopt a friendly, open manner 1and even confide your grievances to her1real grievances, such as you have a right to complain of1it is my firm elief that she would, in time, ecome your faithful friend, and a comfort and support to you, instead of the incu us you descri e her.* But & fear my advice had little effect upon the unfortunate young lady# and, finding & could render myself so little servicea le, my residence at "sh y Park ecame dou ly painful. But still, & must stay out that day and the following one, as & had promised to do so/ though, resisting all entreaties and inducements to prolong my visit further, & insisted upon departing the ne+t morning# affirming that my mother would e lonely without me, and that she impatiently e+pected my return. 9evertheless, it was with a heavy heart that & ade adieu to poor !ady "sh y, and left her in her princely home. &t was no slight additional proof of her unhappiness, that she should so cling to the consolation of my presence, and earnestly desire the company of one whose general tastes and ideas were so little congenial to her own1whom she had

completely forgotten in her hour of prosperity, and whose presence would e rather a nuisance than a pleasure, if she could ut have half her heart*s desire. =."PT), JJ&<1T.) '"98' 0ur school was not situated in the heart of the town/ on entering "--- from the north-west there is a row of respecta le-looking houses, on each side of the road, white road, with narrow slips of garden-ground efore them, <enetian linds to the windows, and a flight of steps leading to each trim, rass-handled door. &n one of the largest of these ha itations dwelt my mother and &, with such young ladies as our friends and the pu lic chose to commit to our charge. =onse$uently, we were a considera le distance from the sea, and divided from it y a la yrinth of streets and houses. But the sea was my delight# and & would often gladly pierce the town to o tain the pleasure of a walk eside it, whether with the pupils, or alone with my mother during the vacations. &t was delightful to me at all times and seasons, ut especially in the wild commotion of a rough searee3e, and in the rilliant freshness of a summer morning. & awoke early on the third morning after my return from "sh y Park1the sun was shining through the lind, and & thought how pleasant it would e to pass through the $uiet town and take a solitary ram le on the sands while half the world was in ed. & was not long in forming the resolution, nor slow to act upon it. 0f course & would not distur my mother, so & stole noiselessly downstairs, and $uietly unfastened the door. & was dressed and out, when the church clock struck a $uarter to si+. There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets# and when & got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my face towards the road, right ay, no language can descri e the effect of the deep, clear a3ure of the sky and ocean, the right morning sunshine on the semicircular arrier of craggy cliffs surmounted y green swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks out at sea1looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little grass-grown islands1and a ove all, on the rilliant, sparkling waves. "nd then, the unspeaka le purity1and freshness of the air7 There was just enough heat to enhance the value of the ree3e, and just enough wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come ounding to the shore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. 9othing else was stirring1no living creature was visi le esides myself. (y footsteps were the first to press the firm, un roken sands#1nothing efore had trampled them since last night*s flowing tide had o literated the deepest marks of yesterday, and left them fair and even, e+cept where the su siding water had left ehind it the traces of dimpled pools and little running streams. ,efreshed, delighted, invigorated, & walked along, forgetting all my cares, feeling as if & had wings to my feet, and could go at least forty miles without fatigue, and e+periencing a sense of e+hilaration to which & had een an entire stranger since the days of early youth. " out half-past si+, however, the grooms egan to come down to air their masters* horses1first one, and then another, till there were some do3en horses and five or si+ riders/ ut that need not trou le me, for they would not come as far as the low rocks which & was now

approaching. %hen & had reached these, and walked over the moist, slippery sea-weed 2at the risk of floundering into one of the numerous pools of clear, salt water that lay etween them4, to a little mossy promontory with the sea splashing round it, & looked ack again to see who ne+t was stirring. 'till, there were only the early grooms with their horses, and one gentleman with a little dark speck of a dog running efore him, and one water-cart coming out of the town to get water for the aths. &n another minute or two, the distant athing machines would egin to move, and then the elderly gentlemen of regular ha its and so er $uaker ladies would e coming to take their salutary morning walks. But however interesting such a scene might e, & could not wait to witness it, for the sun and the sea so da33led my eyes in that direction, that & could ut afford one glance# and then & turned again to delight myself with the sight and the sound of the sea, dashing against my promontory1with no prodigious force, for the swell was roken y the tangled sea-weed and the unseen rocks eneath# otherwise & should soon have een deluged with spray. But the tide was coming in# the water was rising# the gulfs and lakes were filling# the straits were widening/ it was time to seek some safer footing# so & walked, skipped, and stum led ack to the smooth, wide sands, and resolved to proceed to a certain old projection in the cliffs, and then return. Presently, & heard a snuffling sound ehind me and then a dog came frisking and wriggling to my feet. &t was my own 'nap1the little dark, wire-haired terrier7 %hen & spoke his name, he leapt up in my face and yelled for joy. "lmost as much delighted as himself, & caught the little creature in my arms, and kissed him repeatedly. But how came he to e there; .e could not have dropped from the sky, or come all that way alone/ it must e either his master, the rat-catcher, or some ody else that had rought him# so, repressing my e+travagant caresses, and endeavouring to repress his likewise, & looked round, and eheld1(r. %eston7 6Your dog remem ers you well, (iss Grey,* said he, warmly grasping the hand & offered him without clearly knowing what & was a out. 6You rise early.* 69ot often so early as this,* & replied, with ama3ing composure, considering all the circumstances of the case. 6.ow far do you purpose to e+tend your walk;* 6& was thinking of returning1it must e almost time, & think.* .e consulted his watch1a gold one now1and told me it was only five minutes past seven. 6But, dou tless, you have had a long enough walk,* said he, turning towards the town, to which & now proceeded leisurely to retrace my steps# and he walked eside me. 6&n what part of the town do you live;* asked he. 6& never could discover.* 9ever could discover; .ad he endeavoured to do so then; & told him the place of our a ode. .e asked how we prospered in our affairs. & told him we

were doing very well1that we had had a considera le addition to our pupils after the =hristmas vacation, and e+pected a still further increase at the close of this. 6You must e an accomplished instructor,* he o served. 69o, it is my mother,* & replied# 6she manages things so well, and is so active, and clever, and kind.* 6& should like to know your mother. %ill you introduce me to her some time, if & call;* 6Yes, willingly.* 6"nd will you allow me the privilege of an old friend, of looking in upon you now and then;* 6Yes, if1& suppose so.* This was a very foolish answer, ut the truth was, & considered that & had no right to invite anyone to my mother*s house without her knowledge# and if & had said, 6Yes, if my mother does not o ject,* it would appear as if y his $uestion & understood more than was e+pected# so, supposing she would not, & added, 6& suppose so/* ut of course & should have said something more sensi le and more polite, if & had had my wits a out me. %e continued our walk for a minute in silence# which, however, was shortly relieved 2no small relief to me4 y (r. %eston commenting upon the rightness of the morning and the eauty of the ay, and then upon the advantages "--- possessed over many other fashiona le places of resort. 6You don*t ask what rings me to "--- * said he. 6You can*t suppose &*m rich enough to come for my own pleasure.* 6& heard you had left .orton.* 6You didn*t hear, then, that & had got the living of ----;* ---- was a village a out two miles distant from "---. 69o,* said &# 6we live so completely out of the world, even here, that news seldom reaches me through any $uarter# e+cept through the medium of the1 Ga3ette. But & hope you like your new parish# and that & may congratulate you on the ac$uisition;* 6& e+pect to like my parish etter a year or two hence, when & have worked certain reforms & have set my heart upon1or, at least, progressed some steps towards such an achievement. But you may congratulate me now# for & find it very agreea le to have a parish all to myself, with no ody to interfere with me1 to thwart my plans or cripple my e+ertions/ and esides, & have a respecta le house in a rather pleasant neigh ourhood, and three hundred pounds a year# and, in fact, & have nothing ut solitude to complain of, and nothing ut a companion to wish for.* .e looked at me as he concluded/ and the flash of his dark eyes seemed to set my face on fire# greatly to my own discomfiture, for to evince confusion at such a juncture was intolera le. & made an effort, therefore, to remedy the evil, and disclaim all personal application of the remark y a hasty, ill-e+pressed reply,

to the effect that, if he waited till he was well known in the neigh ourhood, he might have numerous opportunities for supplying his want among the residents of ---- and its vicinity, or the visitors of "---, if he re$uired so ample a choice/ not considering the compliment implied y such an assertion, till his answer made me aware of it. 6& am not so presumptuous as to elieve that,* said he, 6though you tell it me# ut if it were so, & am rather particular in my notions of a companion for life, and perhaps & might not find one to suit me among the ladies you mention.* 6&f you re$uire perfection, you never will.* 6& do not1& have no right to re$uire it, as eing so far from perfect myself.* .ere the conversation was interrupted y a water-cart lum ering past us, for we were now come to the usy part of the sands# and, for the ne+t eight or ten minutes, etween carts and horses, and asses, and men, there was little room for social intercourse, till we had turned our acks upon the sea, and egun to ascend the precipitous road leading into the town. .ere my companion offered me his arm, which & accepted, though not with the intention of using it as a support. 6You don*t often come on to the sands, & think,* said he, 6for & have walked there many times, oth morning and evening, since & came, and never seen you till now# and several times, in passing through the town, too, & have looked a out for your school1 ut & did not think of the1,oad# and once or twice & made in$uiries, ut without o taining the re$uisite information.* %hen we had surmounted the acclivity, & was a out to withdraw my arm from his, ut y a slight tightening of the el ow was tacitly informed that such was not his will, and accordingly desisted. 8iscoursing on different su jects, we entered the town, and passed through several streets. & saw that he was going out of his way to accompany me, notwithstanding the long walk that was yet efore him# and, fearing that he might e inconveniencing himself from motives of politeness, & o served16& fear & am taking you out of your way, (r. %eston1& elieve the road to ---- lies $uite in another direction.* 6&*ll leave you at the end of the ne+t street,* said he. 6"nd when will you come to see mamma;* 6To-morrow1God willing.* The end of the ne+t street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. .e stopped there, however, id me good-morning, and called 'nap, who seemed a little dou tful whether to follow his old mistress or his new master, ut trotted away upon eing summoned y the latter. 6& won*t offer to restore him to you, (iss Grey,* said (r. %eston, smiling, 6 ecause & like him.* 60h, & don*t want him,* replied &, 6now that he has a good master# &*m $uite satisfied.* 6You take it for granted that & am a good one, then;*

The man and the dog departed, and & returned home, full of gratitude to heaven for so much liss, and praying that my hopes might not again e crushed. =."PT), JJ<1=09=!:'&09 6%ell, "gnes, you must not take such long walks again efore reakfast,* said my mother, o serving that & drank an e+tra cup of coffee and ate nothing1 pleading the heat of the weather, and the fatigue of my long walk as an e+cuse. & certainly did feel feverish and tired too. 6You always do things y e+tremes/ now, if you had taken a short walk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.* 6%ell, mamma, & will.* 6But this is worse than lying in ed or ending over your ooks/ you have $uite put yourself into a fever.* 6& won*t do it again,* said &. & was racking my rains with thinking how to tell her a out (r. %eston, for she must know he was coming to-morrow. .owever, & waited till the reakfast things were removed, and & was more calm and cool# and then, having sat down to my drawing, & egan16& met an old friend on the sands to-day, mamma.* 6"n old friend7 %ho could it e;* 6Two old friends, indeed. 0ne was a dog#* and then & reminded her of 'nap, whose history & had recounted efore, and related the incident of his sudden appearance and remarka le recognition# 6and the other,* continued &, 6was (r. %eston, the curate of .orton.* 6(r. %eston7 & never heard of him efore.* 6Yes, you have/ &*ve mentioned him several times, & elieve/ ut you don*t remem er.* 6&*ve heard you speak of (r. .atfield.* 6(r. .atfield was the rector, and (r. %eston the curate/ & used to mention him sometimes in contradistinction to (r. .atfield, as eing a more efficient clergyman. .owever, he was on the sands this morning with the dog1he had ought it, & suppose, from the rat-catcher# and he knew me as well as it did1 pro a ly through its means/ and & had a little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked a out our school, & was led to say something a out you, and your good management# and he said he should like to know you, and asked if & would introduce him to you, if he should take the li erty of calling to-morrow# so & said & would. %as & right;* 60f course. %hat kind of a man is he;* 6" very respecta le man, & think/ ut you will see him to-morrow. .e is the new vicar of ----, and as he has only een there a few weeks, & suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.*

The morrow came. %hat a fever of an+iety and e+pectation & was in from reakfast till noon1at which time he made his appearance7 .aving introduced him to my mother, & took my work to the window, and sat down to await the result of the interview. They got on e+tremely well together1greatly to my satisfaction, for & had felt very an+ious a out what my mother would think of him. .e did not stay long that time/ ut when he rose to take leave, she said she should e happy to see him, whenever he might find it convenient to call again# and when he was gone, & was gratified y hearing her say,16%ell7 & think he*s a very sensi le man. But why did you sit ack there, "gnes,* she added, 6and talk so little;* 6Because you talked so well, mamma, & thought you re$uired no assistance from me/ and, esides, he was your visitor, not mine.* "fter that, he often called upon us1several times in the course of a week. .e generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother/ and no wonder, for she could converse. & almost envied the unfettered, vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced y everything she said1and yet, & did not# for, though & occasionally regretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great pleasure to sit and hear the two eings & loved and honoured a ove every one else in the world, discoursing together so amica ly, so wisely, and so well. & was not always silent, however# nor was & at all neglected. & was $uite as much noticed as & would wish to e/ there was no lack of kind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and su tle to e grasped y words, and therefore indescri a le1 ut deeply felt at heart. =eremony was $uickly dropped etween us/ (r. %eston came as an e+pected guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our household affairs. .e even called me 6"gnes/* the name had een timidly spoken at first, ut, finding it gave no offence in any $uarter, he seemed greatly to prefer that appellation to 6(iss Grey#* and so did &. .ow tedious and gloomy were those days in which he did not come7 "nd yet not misera le# for & had still the remem rance of the last visit and the hope of the ne+t to cheer me. But when two or three days passed without my seeing him, & certainly felt very an+ious1a surdly, unreasona ly so# for, of course, he had his own usiness and the affairs of his parish to attend to. "nd & dreaded the close of the holidays, when my usiness also would egin, and & should e sometimes una le to see him, and sometimes1when my mother was in the schoolroom1o liged to e with him alone/ a position & did not at all desire, in the house# though to meet him out of doors, and walk eside him, had proved y no means disagreea le. 0ne evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he arrived1 une+pectedly/ for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during the afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day# ut now the storm was over, and the sun was shining rightly. 6" eautiful evening, (rs. Grey7* said he, as he entered. 6"gnes, & want you to take a walk with me to ---* 2he named a certain part of the coast1a old hill on the land side, and towards the sea a steep precipice, from the summit of which a

glorious view is to e had4. 6The rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air, and the prospect will e magnificent. %ill you come;* 6=an & go, mamma;* 6Yes# to e sure.* & went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes# though, of course, & took a little more pains with my attire than if & had merely een going out on some shopping e+pedition alone. The thunder-shower had certainly had a most eneficial effect upon the weather, and the evening was most delightful. (r. %eston would have me to take his arm# he said little during our passage through the crowded streets, ut walked very fast, and appeared grave and a stracted. & wondered what was the matter, and felt an indefinite dread that something unpleasant was on his mind# and vague surmises, concerning what it might e, trou led me not a little, and made me grave and silent enough. But these fantasies vanished upon reaching the $uiet outskirts of the town# for as soon as we came within sight of the venera le old church, and the1hill, with the deep lue eyond it, & found my companion was cheerful enough. 6&*m afraid &*ve een walking too fast for you, "gnes,* said he/ 6in my impatience to e rid of the town, & forgot to consult your convenience# ut now we*ll walk as slowly as you please. & see, y those light clouds in the west, there will e a rilliant sunset, and we shall e in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at the most moderate rate of progression.* %hen we had got a out half-way up the hill, we fell into silence again# which, as usual, he was the first to reak. 6(y house is desolate yet, (iss Grey,* he smilingly o served, 6and & am ac$uainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several in this town too# and many others & know y sight and y report# ut not one of them will suit me for a companion# in fact, there is only one person in the world that will/ and that is yourself# and & want to know your decision;* 6"re you in earnest, (r. %eston;* 6&n earnest7 .ow could you think & should jest on such a su ject;* .e laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm/ he must have felt it trem le 1 ut it was no great matter now. 6& hope & have not een too precipitate,* he said, in a serious tone. 6You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and talk soft nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that & felt# and that a single word or glance of mine meant more than the honied phrases and fervent protestations of most other men.* & said something a out not liking to leave my mother, and doing nothing without her consent. 6& settled everything with (rs. Grey, while you were putting on your onnet,* replied he. 6'he said & might have her consent, if & could o tain yours# and & asked her, in case & should e so happy, to come and live with us1for & was sure you would like it etter. But she refused, saying she could now afford to employ

an assistant, and would continue the school till she could purchase an annuity sufficient to maintain her in comforta le lodgings# and, meantime, she would spend her vacations alternately with us and your sister, and should e $uite contented if you were happy. "nd so now & have overruled your o jections on her account. .ave you any other;* 69o1none.* 6You love me then;* said e, fervently pressing my hand. 6Yes.* .ere & pause. (y 8iary, from which & have compiled these pages, goes ut little further. & could go on for years, ut & will content myself with adding, that & shall never forget that glorious summer evening, and always remem er with delight that steep hill, and the edge of the precipice where we stood together, watching the splendid sunset mirrored in the restless world of waters at our feet 1with hearts filled with gratitude to heaven, and happiness, and love1almost too full for speech. " few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an assistant, & ecame the wife of )dward %eston# and never have found cause to repent it, and am certain that & never shall. %e have had trials, and we know that we must have them again# ut we ear them well together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each other against the final separation1that greatest of all afflictions to the survivor. But, if we keep in mind the glorious heaven eyond, where oth may meet again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surely that too may e orne# and, meantime, we endeavour to live to the glory of .im who has scattered so many lessings in our path. )dward, y his strenuous e+ertions, has worked surprising reforms in his parish, and is esteemed and loved y its inha itants1as he deserves# for whatever his faults may e as a man 2and no one is entirely without4, & defy any ody to lame him as a pastor, a hus and, or a father. 0ur children, )dward, "gnes, and little (ary, promise well# their education, for the time eing, is chiefly committed to me# and they shall want no good thing that a mother*s care can give. 0ur modest income is amply sufficient for our re$uirements/ and y practising the economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our richer neigh ours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment ourselves, ut to have every year something to lay y for our children, and something to give to those who need it. "nd now & think & have said sufficient.