Shirley

perch; and then she betook herself to the parlour.
    The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting; a sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room; the newly kindled lamp burned up bright; the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
    »I am pleased to come home,« repeated Mr. Moore.
    They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health: her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true: there was an obvious change in Miss Helstone: all about her seemed elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn: no longer crushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had tasted the cordial of hearth's-ease, and been lifted on the wing of hope.
    After tea, Hortense went up-stairs: she had not rummaged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now become resistless. During her absence, the talk passed into Caroline's hands: she took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. A pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar topics: a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights of expression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it with animation.
    »Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings,« said Moore, after earnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
    »Do I?«
    »I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer me more than I had calculated.«
    »I am glad of that. And I
really
cheer you?«
    »You look brightly; move buoyantly; speak musically.«
    »It is pleasant to be here again.«
    »Truly it is pleasant: I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek, and hope in your eye, is pleasant, Cary: but what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?«
    »For one thing, I am happy in mamma: I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me; now, when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her; and I
do
attend to her: I am her waiting-woman, as well as her child: I like – you would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert: I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then, she is charming to talk to: full of wisdom; ripe in judgment; rich in information; exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her, I like her better; I esteem her more highly; I love her more tenderly.«
    »
That
for one thing, then, Cary: you talk in such a way about ›mamma,‹ it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady.«
    »She is not old, Robert.«
    »Of the young lady, then.«
    »She does not pretend to be young.«
    »Well – of the matron. But you said, ›mamma's‹ affection was
one
thing that made you happy: now for the other thing.«
    »I am glad you are better.«
    »What besides?«
    »I am glad we are friends.«
    »You and I?«
    »Yes: I once thought we never should be.«
    »Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and, consequently, will not please you.«
    »Ah! – don't! I cannot bear to think ill of you.«
    »And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve.«
    »Well, but I half know your ›thing:‹ indeed, I believe I know all about it.«
    »You do not.«
    »I believe I do.«
    »Whom does it concern besides me?«
    She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.
    »Speak, Cary! – whom does it concern?«
    She tried to utter a name, and could not.
    »Tell me: there is none present but ourselves: be frank.«
    »But if I guess wrong?«
    »I will forgive. Whisper, Cary.«
    He bent his ear to her lips: still she would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that Moore waited, and was resolved to hear something, she at last said, –
    »Miss Keeldar spent a day at the Rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night.«
    »And you and she curled your hair together?«
    »How do you know that?«
    »And then you chatted; and she told you –«
    »It was not at curling-hair time; so you are not as wise as you think: and besides, she did n't tell me.«
    »You slept