Shirley

– yet, you see I am better.«
    »Comforter! sad as sweet: I am too feeble to say what I feel; but, while you speak, I
do
feel.«
    »Here I am at your side, where I thought never more to be: here I speak to you – I see you listen to me willingly – look at me kindly. Did I count on that? I despaired.«
    Moore sighed – a sigh so deep, it was nearly a groan: he covered his eyes with his hand.
    »May I be spared to make some atonement!«
    Such was his prayer.
    »And for what?«
    »We will not touch on it now, Cary: unmanned as I am, I have not the power to cope with such a topic. Was Mrs. Pryor with you during your illness?«
    »Yes« (Caroline smiled brightly) – »you know she is mamma?«
    »I have heard: Hortense told me; but that tale too I will receive from yourself. Does she add to your happiness?«
    »What! mamma? She is
dear
to me;
how
dear I cannot say. I was altogether weary, and she held me up.«
    »I deserve to hear that in a moment when I can scarce lift my hand to my head. I deserve it.«
    »It is no reproach against you.«
    »It is a coal of fire heaped on my head; and so is every word you address to me, and every look that lights your sweet face. Come still nearer, Lina, and give me your hand – if my thin fingers do not scare you.«
    She took those thin fingers between her two little hands – she bent her head »et les effleura de ses lèvres« (I put that in French, because the word ›effleurer‹ is an exquisite word). Moore was much moved: a large tear or two coursed down his hollow cheek.
    »I'll keep these things in my heart, Cary: that kiss I will put by, and you shall hear of it again one day.«
    »Come out!« cried Martin, opening the door. »Come away – you have had twenty minutes instead of a quarter of an hour.«
    »She will not stir yet – you hempseed.«
    »I dare not stay longer, Robert.«
    »Can you promise to return?«
    »No, she can't,« responded Martin. »The thing musn't become customary: I can't be troubled. It's very well for once: I'll not have it repeated.«
    »
You
'll not have it repeated!«
    »Hush! don't vex him – we could not have met to-day but for him: but I will come again, if it is your wish that I should come.«
    »It
is
my wish – my
one
wish – almost the only wish I can feel.«
    »Come this minute: my mother has coughed, got up, set her feet on the floor. Let her only catch you on the stairs, Miss Caroline: you're not to bid him good-bye« (stepping between her and Moore), – »you are to march.«
    »My shawl, Martin.«
    »I have it. I'll put it on for you when you are in the hall.«
    He made them part: he would suffer no farewell but what could be expressed in looks: he half carried Caroline down the stairs. In the hall he wrapped her shawl round her, and – but that his mother's tread then creaked in the gallery, and but that a sentiment of diffidence – the proper, natural, therefore the noble impulse of his boy's heart, held him back, he would have claimed his reward – he would have said, »Now, Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss.« But ere the words had passed his lips, she was across the snowy road, rather skimming than wading the drifts.
    »She is my debtor, and I
will
be paid.«
    He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not audacity, which had failed him: he misjudged the quality of his own nature, and held it for something lower than it was.
     
     
Chapter XXXIV
Case of Domestic Persecution. – Remarkable Instance of Pious Perseverance in the Discharge of Religious Duties
    Martin, having known the taste of excitement, wanted a second draught; having felt the dignity of power, he loathed to relinquish it. Miss Helstone – that girl he had always called ugly, and whose face was now perpetually before his eyes, by day and by night, in dark and in sunshine – had once come within his sphere: it fretted him to think the visit might never be repeated.
    Though a schoolboy, he was no ordinary schoolboy: he was destined to grow up an original. At a few years later date, he took great pains to pare and polish himself down to the pattern of the rest of the world, but he never succeeded: an unique stamp marked him always. He now sat idle at his desk in the grammar-school, casting about in his mind for the means of adding another chapter to his commenced romance: he did not yet know how many commenced life-romances are doomed never to get beyond the first – or, at most, the second chapter. His Saturday half-holiday he spent in