Shirley

she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second since, she would have flown to him; that second passed, she would flee from him. She cannot; there is no way of escape: the dining-room has but one door, through which now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology: –
    »I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little quiet.«
    There was something so diffident and downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one might perceive that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ardour and hopeful confidence; he must have seen how the check of this morning had operated: here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that system in broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet parlour, disengaged, at the hour of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the room: Caroline was about to follow her. Moore, to act consistently, should have let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gently kept her back: he did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go.
    »Shall I tell my uncle you are here?« asked she, still in the same subdued voice.
    »No: I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will be my messenger?«
    »Yes, Robert.«
    »Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop; and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that?«
    »Oh! yes.« These two monosyllables were uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and, as she said them, she shook her head slightly, and sighed. »Will you prosecute him?«
    »Doubtless.«
    »No, Robert.«
    »And why no, Caroline?«
    »Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you more than ever.«
    »That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief.«
    »But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice: it is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it, and hit their mark ›at last.‹«
    Moore laughed.
    »A most pithy vaunt,« said he; »one that redounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don't fear for me, Lina: I am on my guard against these lamb-like compatriots of yours: don't make yourself uneasy about me.«
    »How can I help it? You are my cousin. If anything happened –« she stopped.
    »Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own language, there is a Providence above all – is there not?«
    »Yes, dear Robert. May He guard you!«
    »And if prayers have efficacy, yours will benefit me: you pray for me sometimes?«
    »Not
sometimes,
Robert: you, and Louis, and Hortense are
always
remembered.«
    »So I have often imagined: it has occurred to me, when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen, that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night. I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail much; but the petitions come out of a sincere breast, from innocent lips: they should be acceptable as Abel's offering; and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them.«
    »Annihilate that doubt: it is groundless.«
    »When a man has been brought up only to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine; and very strange it seems, that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him, as if he had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profess to have any higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping clean from his bourgeois scutcheon the foul stain of