Shirley

then, are you altered?«
    »
Am
I altered?«
    »We will try: we will seek a proof.«
    »How?«
    »I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as you used to?«
    »I do not: but it is not because I am ill.«
    »Have you the appetite you once had?«
    »No: but it is not because I am ill.«
    »You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother's, and is too small to pass the joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively purloined it: it fitted your fore-finger. Try now.«
    She permitted the test: the ring dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and re-attached it to the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again said: –
    »It is not because I am ill.«
    »Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh,« proceeded Moore, »but your spirits are always at ebb: besides, there is a nervous alarm in your eye – a nervous disquiet in your manner: these peculiarities were not formerly yours.«
    »Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit it: I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet weather we have! Steady, pouring rain!«
    »
You
nervous! Yes: and if Miss Keeldar is nervous, it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer. The ailment is not physical: I have suspected that. It came in one moment. I know the day. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental.«
    »Not at all: it is nothing so dignified – merely nervous. Oh! dismiss the topic.«
    »When it is exhausted: not till then. Nervous alarms should always be communicated, that they may be dissipated. I wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to speak willingly. I believe confession, in your case, would be half-equivalent to cure.«
    »No,« said Shirley, abruptly: »I wish that were at all probable; but I am afraid it is not.«
    She suspended her work a moment. She was now seated. Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her hand. Mr. Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and in her wish was implied an important admission; after that, she could no longer affirm that
nothing
ailed her.
    The tutor allowed her some minutes for repose and reflection, ere he returned to the charge: once, his lips moved to speak; but he thought better of it, and prolonged the pause. Shirley lifted her eye to his: had he betrayed injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persistence in silence would have been the result; but he looked calm, strong, trustworthy.
    »I had better tell
you
than my aunt,« she said, »or than my cousins, or my uncle: they would all make such a bustle – and it is that very bustle I dread; the alarm, the flurry, the éclat: in short, I never liked to be the centre of a small domestic whirlpool. You can bear a little shock – eh?«
    »A great one, if necessary.«
    Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to tell him? Was irremediable mischief done?
    »Had I thought it right to go to you, I would never have made a secret of the matter one moment,« she continued: »I would have told at once, and asked advice.«
    »Why was it not right to come to me?«
    »It might be
right –
I do not mean that; but I could not do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you: the mishap concerned me only – I wanted to keep it to myself, and people will not let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides, it may pass away without result – God knows!«
    Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a quick explanation; he suffered neither gesture, glance, nor word, to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized Shirley; his confidence reassured her.
    »Great effects may spring from trivial causes,« she remarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist; then, unfastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up, –
    »Look here, Mr. Moore.«
    She showed a mark in her white arm; rather a deep though healed up indentation: something between a burn and a cut.
    »I would not show that to any one in Briarfield but you, because you can take it quietly.«
    »Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock: its history will explain.«
    »Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made me nervous, thin, and foolish; because, on account of that little mark, I am obliged to look forward to a possibility that has its terrors.«
    The sleeve was