Shirley

at the close of each theme, to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her: »Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, ––shire« (a southern county), and a date four years back.
    She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
    »They are Shirley's, you see,« said Henry, carelessly.
    »Did
you
give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?«
    »She wrote them in my school-room at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French: it is his native language.«
    »I know ... Was she a good pupil, Henry?«
    »She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room: she made lesson-time charming. She learned fast – you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her: she spoke it quick – quick; as quick as Mr. Moore himself.«
    »Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?«
    »She gave plenty of trouble in a way: she was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley.«
    »
Desperately
fond – you small simpleton! You do n't know what you say.«
    »I
am desperately
fond of her: she is the light of my eyes: I said so to Mr. Moore last night.«
    »He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration.«
    »He did n't. He never reproves and reproves, as girls' governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know.«
    »Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, he has given you a good disposition, and an excellent heart and brain.«
    »I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me.«
    »Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't like school-boys: I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves; but you are so different, I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot,« she muttered to herself, »than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read.«
    »I
am
fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling.«
    Miss Keeldar here entered.
    »Henry,« she said, »I have brought your lunch here: I shall prepare it for you myself.«
    She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil which resembled a toasting-fork.
    »What are you two about,« she continued, »ransacking Mr. Moore's desk?«
    »Looking at your old copy-books,« returned Caroline.
    »My old copy-books?«
    »French exercise-books. Look here! They must be held precious: they are kept carefully.«
    She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up:
    »Did not know one was in existence,« she said. »I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen-fire, or curled the maid's hair at Sympson Grove. What made you keep them, Henry?«
    »It is not my doing: I should not have thought of it: it never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk: perhaps he forgot them.«
    »C'est cela: he forgot them, no doubt,« echoed Shirley. »They are extremely well written,« she observed, complacently.
    »What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well: a slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively, that is, at first: I believe you grieved him after a while.«
    Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, »That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow-scene.«
    »I remember,« said Henry; »Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried ›Voilà le Français gagné!‹ He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you described.«
    »You have not forgotten then, Hal?«
    »Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer