Shirley

now pass from the dining-room to the drawing-room.«
    »It is a servant.«
    »It is Sir Philip, I know his step.«
    »Your hearing is acute.«
    »It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard you sing to him some song which he had brought you. I heard him, when he took his departure at eleven o'clock, call you out on to the pavement, to look at the evening star.«
    »You must be nervously sensitive.«
    »I heard him kiss your hand.«
    »Impossible!«
    »No; my chamber is over the hall, the window just above the front door, the sash was a little raised, for I felt feverish: you stood ten minutes with him on the steps: I heard your discourse, every word, and I heard the salute. Henry, give me some water.«
    »Let me give it him.«
    But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson, and declined her attendance.
    »And can I do nothing?«
    »Nothing: for you cannot guarantee me a night's peaceful rest, and it is all I at present want.«
    »You do not sleep well?«
    »Sleep has left me.«
    »Yet you said you were not very ill?«
    »I am often sleepless when in high health.«
    »If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid slumber; quite deep and hushed, without a dream.«
    »Blank annihilation! I do not ask that.«
    »With dreams of all you most desire.«
    »Monstrous delusions! The sleep would be delirium, the waking death.«
    »Your wishes are not so chimerical: you are no visionary?«
    »Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so; but my character is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the last new novel might be.«
    »That is possible ... But this sleep: I
should
like to woo it to your pillow – to win for you its favour. If I took a book and sat down, and read some pages –? I can well spare half an hour.«
    »Thank you, but I will not detain you.«
    »I would read softly.«
    »It would not do. I am too feverish and excitable to bear a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You had better leave me.«
    »Well, I will go.«
    »And no good-night?«
    »Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night.« (Exit Shirley).
    »Henry, my boy, go to bed now: it is time you had some repose.«
    »Sir, it would please me to watch at your bed-side all night.«
    »Nothing less called for: I am getting better: there, go.«
    »Give me your blessing, sir.«
    »God bless you, my best pupil!«
    »You never call me your dearest pupil!«
    »No, nor ever shall.«
     
    Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her former teacher's rejection of her courtesy: it is certain she did not repeat the offer of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in the course of a day, it did not again pause at his door; nor did her »cooing, vibrating voice« disturb a second time the hush of the sick-room. A sick-room, indeed, it soon ceased to be; Mr. Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed over his indisposition: in a few days he shook it off, and resumed his duties as tutor.
    That »Auld Langsyne« had still its authority both with preceptor and scholar, was proved by the manner in which he sometimes promptly passed the distance she usually maintained between them, and put down her high reserve with a firm, quiet hand.
    One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprieve from their society, had remained behind, detained by business, as she said. The business – a little letter-writing – was soon despatched after the yard-gates had closed on the carriage: Miss Keeldar betook herself to the garden.
    It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding of the Indian summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet woods stood ripe to be stript, but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom, faded but not withered, tinged the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through a silent district; no wind followed its course, or haunted its woody borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers, and even of fruits, was over; but a scantling of apples enriched the trees; only a blossom here and there expanded pale and delicate amidst a knot of faded leaves.
    These single flowers – the last of their race – Shirley culled as she wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. She was fastening into her girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay, when Henry Sympson called to her as he came limping from the house.
    »Shirley,