Shirley

still gazing keenly, though not inimically, rather indeed pityingly at Caroline. »Wonderfully self-supported you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded deer. Are you afraid Shirley will worry you, if she discovers that you are hurt, and that you bleed?«
    »I never do fear Shirley.«
    »But sometimes you dislike her: often you avoid her. Shirley can feel when she is slighted and shunned. If you had not walked home in the company you did last night, you would have been a different girl to-day. What time did you reach the Rectory?«
    »By ten.«
    »Humph! You took three-quarters of an hour to walk a mile. Was it you, or Moore, who lingered so?«
    »Shirley, you talk nonsense.«
    »
He
talked nonsense – that I doubt not; or he looked it, which is a thousand times worse: I see the reflection of his eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call him out, if I could only get a trustworthy second: I feel desperately irritated: I felt so last night, and have felt it all day.
    You don't ask me why,« she proceeded, after a pause, »you little, silent, over-modest thing; and you don't deserve that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an invitation. Upon my word, I could have found it in my heart to have dogged Moore yesterday evening with dire intent: I have pistols, and can use them.«
    »Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have shot – me or Robert?«
    »Neither, perhaps – perhaps myself – more likely a bat or a tree-bough. He is a puppy – your cousin: a quiet, serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down (as I am very conscious he does) with his fixity of purpose, etc.; and then –– I have no patience with him!«
    Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with men in general, and with her tenant in particular.
    »You are mistaken,« urged Caroline, in some anxiety: »Robert is no puppy or male flirt; I can vouch for that.«
    »
You
vouch for it! Do you think I'll take your word on the subject? There is no one's testimony I would not credit sooner than yours. To advance Moore's fortune, you would cut off your right hand.«
    »But not tell lies; and if I speak the truth, I must assure you that he was just civil to me last night – that was all.«
    »I never asked what he was – I can guess: I saw him from the window take your hand in his long fingers, just as he went out at my gate.«
    »That is nothing. I am not a stranger, you know: I am an old acquaintance, and his cousin.«
    »I feel indignant; and that is the long and short of the matter,« responded Miss Keeldar. »All my comfort,« she added presently, »is broken up by his manœuvres. He keeps intruding between you and me: without him we should be good friends; but that six feet of puppyhood makes a perpetually recurring eclipse of our friendship. Again and again he crosses and obscures the disk I want always to see clear: ever and anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuisance.«
    »No, Shirley; no.«
    »He does. You did not want my society this afternoon, and I feel it hard: you are naturally somewhat reserved, but I am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we were but left unmolested, I have that regard for you that I could bear you in my presence for ever, and not for the fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot say as much respecting me.«
    »Shirley, I can say anything you wish: Shirley, I like you.«
    »You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina.«
    »I shall not. I am every day growing more accustomed to – fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a vehement friendship all at once; but you are so much better than common – you are so different to everyday young ladies – I esteem you – I value you: you are never a burden to me – never. Do you believe what I say?«
    »Partly,« replied Miss Keeldar, smiling rather incredulously; »but you are a peculiar personage: quiet as you look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within, not easily reached or appreciated: then you certainly are not happy.«
    »And unhappy people are rarely good – is that what you mean?«
    »Not at all: I mean rather that unhappy people are often preoccupied, and not in the mood for discoursing with companions of my nature. Moreover, there is a sort of unhappiness which not only depresses, but corrodes – and that, I fear, is your