Shirley

me.«
    »Why should it puzzle you?«
    »It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a great deal, – you talk freely. How was that circumstance never touched on?«
    »Because it never was,« and Shirley laughed.
    »You are a singular being!« observed her friend: »I thought I knew you quite well: I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor; and now, again, here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me.«
    »I never made it a secret: I had no reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have told you: besides, I thought you knew.«
    »I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter: you don't like poor Louis, – why? Are you impatient at what you perhaps consider his
servile
position? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly placed?«
    »Robert's brother, indeed!« was the exclamation, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and, with a movement of proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.
    »Yes,« repeated Caroline, with mild firmness; »Robert's brother. He
is
thus closely related to Gérard Moore of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome, or an air so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman, were he free.«
    »Wise, humble, pious Caroline!« exclaimed Shirley, ironically. »Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your panegyric, – he is there in the garden,« she continued, pointing through an aperture in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
    »He is not ugly, Shirley,« pleaded Caroline; »he is not ignoble; he is sad: silence seals his mind; but I believe him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very commendable in his disposition, Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does.«
    Shirley laughed: she laughed again; each time with a slightly sarcastic sound. »Well, well,« was her comment. »On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence – won't we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot – eh? Something commendable in his disposition! id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him.«
    He approached the summer-house: unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.
    »Old boy!« said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, »the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, do n't we?«
    He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among the trees round: something fluttered down as light as leaves: they were little birds, which lighting on the sward at shy distance, hopped as if expectant.
    »The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day,« again soliloquized Louis. »They want some more biscuit: to-day, I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprites, I have not a crumb for you.«
    He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
    »A want easily supplied,« whispered the listening Miss Keeldar.
    She took from her reticule a morsel of sweet-cake: for that repository was never destitute of something available to throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows; she crumbled it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his hand.
    »There,« said she; »there is a Providence for the improvident.«
    »This September afternoon is pleasant,« observed Louis Moore, as – not at all discomposed – he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.
    »Even for you?«
    »As pleasant for me as for any monarch.«
    »You take a sort of harsh, solitary triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements, and the inanimate and lower animate creation.«
    »Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam's son; the heir of him to whom dominion was given over ›every living thing that moveth upon the earth.‹ Your dog likes and follows me; when I go into that