Shirley

back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means to steal quietly from the room: she re-entered it soon after, apparently as composed as if she had really not overheard this strange soliloquy.
    The next day several callers came. It had become known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his sister Margaret arrived; both, after they had been in the sick-room, quitted it in tears: they had found the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came. Caroline seemed stimulated by her presence: she assured her, smiling, she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but cheerfully: during her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her complexion: she looked better.
    »How is Mr. Robert?« asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense was preparing to take leave.
    »He was very well when he left.«
    »Left! Is he gone from home?«
    It was then explained that some police intelligence about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit, had, that morning, called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he returned.
    »He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill?«
    »Oh! no. He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold.«
    After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach Caroline's couch for above an hour: she heard her weep, and dared not look on her tears.
    As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nurse with an unrecognising glance.
    »I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer-morning,« she said, »as I stood at the counting-house window.«
    Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound romantic, perhaps, in books: in real life, they are harrowing.
    »My darling, do you know me?« said Mrs. Pryor.
    »I went in to call Robert to breakfast: I have been with him in the garden: he asked me to go: a heavy dew has refreshed the flowers: the peaches are ripening.«
    »My darling! my darling!« again and again repeated the nurse.
    »I thought it was daylight – long after sunrise: it looks dark – is the moon not set?«
    That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her: floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
    »Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this? – I see a shape at my bedside.«
    »It is myself – it is your friend – your nurse – your –. Lean your head on my shoulder: collect yourself.« (In a lower tone.) »Oh God, take pity! Give
her
life, and
me
strength! Send me courage – teach me words!«
    Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms – on the throbbing bosom of the nurse.
    »I am better now,« whispered Caroline, at last, »much better – I feel where I am: this is Mrs. Pryor near me: I was dreaming – I talk when I wake up from dreams: people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do not be afraid.«
    »It is not fear, child; only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary; your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little: he would be glad if you had a better appetite.«
    »I am thirsty: let me drink.«
    She drank eagerly.
    »What o'clock is it, ma'am?« she asked.
    »Past nine.«
    »Not later? Oh! I have yet a long night before me; but the tea has made me strong: I will sit up.«
    Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.
    »Thank Heaven! I am not always equally miserable, and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense went: perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The moon shines clear.«
    »Very fine: a perfect summer night. The old church-tower gleams white almost as silver.«
    »And does the churchyard look peaceful?«
    »Yes, and the garden also: dew glistens on the foliage.«
    »Can you see many long weeds and nettles amongst the graves; or do they look turfy and flowery?«
    »I see closed daisy-heads, gleaming like pearls on some mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank grass, and cleared all away.«
    »I always like that to be done: it soothes one's mind to see the place in order: and, I dare say, within the church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor papa's epitaph in black letters on the