Shirley

that Whitsuntide was approaching, when the grand United Sunday-School tea-drinking and procession of the three parishes of Briarfield, Whinbury, and Nunnely were to take place. Caroline he knew would be at her post as teacher, he said, and he hoped Miss Keeldar would not be wanting: he hoped she would make her first public appearance amongst them at that time. Shirley was not the person to miss an occasion of this sort: she liked festive excitement, a gathering of happiness, a concentration and combination of pleasant details, a throng of glad faces, a muster of elated hearts: she told Mr. Hall they might count on her with security: she did not know what she would have to do, but they might dispose of her as they pleased.
    »And,« said Caroline, »you will promise to come to my table, and to sit near me, Mr. Hall?«
    »I shall not fail, Deo volente,« said he. »I have occupied the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drinkings for the last six years,« he proceeded, turning to Miss Keeldar. »They made her a Sunday-school teacher when she was a little girl of twelve: she is not particularly self-confident by nature, as you may have observed; and the first time she had to ›take a tray,‹ as the phrase is, and make tea in public, there was some piteous trembling and flushing. I observed the speechless panic, the cups shaking in the little hand, and the overflowing teapot filled too full from the urn. I came to her aid, took a seat near her, managed the urn and the slop-basin, and in fact made the tea for her like any old woman.«
    »I was very grateful to you,« interposed Caroline.
    »You were: you told me so with an earnest sincerity that repaid me well; inasmuch as it was not like the majority of little ladies of twelve, whom you may help and caress for ever without their evincing any quicker sense of the kindness done and meant than if they were made of wax and wood, instead of flesh and nerves. She kept close to me, Miss Keeldar, the rest of the evening, walking with me over the grounds where the children were playing; she followed me into the vestry when all were summoned into church: she would, I believe, have mounted with me to the pulpit, had I not taken the previous precaution of conducting her to the Rectory-pew.«
    »And he has been my friend ever since,« said Caroline.
    »And always sat at her table, near her tray, and handed the cups, – that is the extent of my services. The next thing I do for her will be to marry her some day to some curate or mill-owner: but mind, Caroline, I shall inquire about the bridegroom's character, and if he is not a gentleman likely to render happy the little girl who walked with me hand in hand over Nunnely Common, I will not officiate: so take care.«
    »The caution is useless: I am not going to be married. I shall live single like your sister Margaret, Mr. Hall.«
    »Very well – you might do worse – Margaret is not unhappy: she has her books for a pleasure, and her brother for a care, and is content. If ever you want a home; if the day should come when Briarfield Rectory is yours no longer, come to Nunnely Vicarage. Should the old maid and bachelor be still living, they will make you tenderly welcome.«
    »There are your flowers. Now,« said Caroline, who had kept the nosegay she had selected for him till this moment, »
you
don't care for a bouquet, but you must give it to Margaret: only – to be sentimental for once – keep that little forget-me-not, which is a wild-flower I gathered from the grass; and – to be still more sentimental – let me take two or three of the blue blossoms and put them in my souvenir.«
    And she took out a small book with enamelled cover and silver clasp, wherein, having opened it, she inserted the flowers, writing round them in pencil – »To be kept for the sake of the Rev. Cyril Hall, my friend. May – 18–.«
    The Rev. Cyril Hall, on his part also, placed a sprig in safety between the leaves of a pocket Testament: he only wrote on the margin – ›Caroline.‹
    »Now,« said he, smiling, »I trust we are romantic enough. Miss Keeldar,« he continued (the curates, by-the-by, during this conversation, were too much occupied with their own jokes to notice what passed at the other end of the table), »I hope you are laughing at this trait of ›
exaltation
‹ in the old greyheaded Vicar; but, the fact is, I am so used to comply with the requests of this young friend of yours, I don't know how to refuse her when she