"Sarah never called me by my Christian name," I bluntly replied.
"Miss Burns," solemnly inquired Mrs. Marks, "do you mean to establish a parallel? May I know who and what you take me for?"
"You are the housekeeper," I answered.
Alas! why has the plain truth the power of offending so many people besides Mrs. Marks, and who, like her, too, scorn to attribute their wrath to its true cause?
"You have been asked for your Christian name," she said, irefully; "with unparalleled obstinacy you have refused to tell it; you shall be called Burns, and go to bed at once."
The sentence was immediately carried into effect; I was taken to the next room, undressed, and hoisted up into the tall four-posted bedstead which nightly received Mrs Marks, and left there to darkness and my reflections. But no punishment from those I did not love ever had affected me. I was soon fast asleep.
Memory is a succession of vivid pictures and sudden blanks. I remember my first evening at Thornton House more distinctly than the incidents of last week, but the days that followed it are wrapt in a dim mist. But much that then seemed mysterious on account of my ignorance, I have since learned to understand.
My grandfather was a country gentleman of good family, but of eccentric character. He had from a youth devoted himself to science, and renounced the world. I believe he knew and studied everything, but his learning led to no result, save that of diminishing a fortune which had never been very ample, and of burdening still more heavily his encumbered estate. I have often thought what a dull life my poor mother must have led with him in that gloomy old house, and I can scarcely wonder that, when a man, young, amiable, and rather good-looking than plain, was imprudently thrown in her way, she knew not how to resist the temptation of love and liberty.
Mr. Thornton never forgave them. Soon after the elopement of his daughter he went abroad on some scientific errand, leaving his property to the care of lawyers, and his house to Mrs. Marks, the widow of a scientific man, whom he had taken for his housekeeper. He returned to Leigh about the time of my father's death, unaltered in temper or feelings. Wrapt in his books and studies, he went nowhere and saw no one. Fate having chosen to burden him with two feminine guests—his niece and myself—he did his best to elude the penalty, by keeping away from us both.
Miss Grainger's sojourn at Thornton House was caused by an indiscretion, in which beautiful young ladies will sometimes indulge. She had chosen to divert from the plain daughter of an aunt, with whom she resided, the affections of her betrothed; who was also my grandfather's heir. Edward Thornton lost his intended and her ten thousand pounds, and the beautiful Edith exchanged a luxurious abode and fashionable life for Thornton House and the society of her uncle. A rose and an owl would have been as well matched. Mr. Thornton shunned his niece with all his might; and, not being able to forgive her the sin of her birth, he saw still less of his grand-daughter.
A room near that of Mrs. Marks was fitted up for me. There I spent my days, occasionally enlivened by the sound of her alarum-bell; my old books and playthings my only company. Even childish errors win their retribution. I had been an exclusive, unsociable child, caring but for one being, and contemning every other affection and companionship; no one now cared for me. Miss Murray sent me my things, and troubled herself about nothing else; my grandfather I never saw; his niece came not near me; Mrs. Digby imitated her mistress. I was left to Mrs. Marks; she might have been negligent and tyrannical with utter impunity; but though she still considered me in the light of a little animal, and persisted in calling me "Burns," she did her duty by me.
My wants were attended to; but that was all; I was left to myself, to solitude and liberty. I was again sickly and languid. To go up and down stairs, to play in the court, wander in the grounds, or walk in the wild and neglected garden behind the house, were exertions beyond my strength. I remained in my room, a voluntary captive, satisfied with looking out of the window. It commanded the grounds below, a green and wild desert, with a bright stream gliding through, and looked beyond them over a soft and fertile tract of country bounded by a waving line of low hills, which opened to afford, as in a vision, a sudden view of some glorious world,— a glimpse of blending sea and heaven, limited, yet giving that sense of the infinite, for which the mind ever longs and which the eye ever seeks.
I sat at that window for hours daily, and grew not wearied of gazing. The sea, glittering as glass in sunshine, of the deepest blue in shadow, dark and sullen, or white with foam in tempest; the mellow and pastoral look of the distant country; the varied beauty of the park, with its ancient trees, woodland aspect, and bounding deer; the high grass below, suddenly swept down by the strong wind, and ever rising again; the slow and stately clouds that passed on in the blue air above me, with a sense, motion, and in a region of their own, were not, however, the objects that attracted me so irresistibly.
The avenue stretching beneath my gaze, with its dark and stately trees, under which cool shadows ever lingered, and the grass-grown path lit up by gliding sunbeams, had my first and last look. Untaught by disappointment, I kept watching for Cornelius O'Reilly. My plans were laid, and I one day tested their practicability. Deceived by a strong resemblance in height and figure, I slipped down, unlocked a side-door which nobody minded, and thus admitted into Thornton House a handsome fashionable-looking man, who seemed surprised, and asked for Miss Grainger. I stole away without answering. The same evening Mrs. Marks called me to her presence. She sat down, and made me stand before her. "Burns," she said, "was it you who let in young Mr. Thornton by the side- door?"
"Yes," I replied, unhesitatingly.
"Who told you to do so?"
"No one; I did it out of my own head."
"You did it on purpose?"
"Yes, I saw him coming, and went down."
Mrs. Marks looked astounded.
"Burns! what could be your motive?"
I remained mute, though the question was put under every variety of shape.
"Unfortunate little creature!" observed Mrs. Marks, whose dull eyes beamed compassion on me, "it does not know the nature of its own blind impulses."
Thanks to this charitable conclusion, I escaped punishment; but on the following day I found the side-door secured by a high bolt beyond my reach. I did not, however, give up the point. A wicket-gate opened from the garden on the grounds, and commanded a side view of the avenue; there, every fine day, I took my post, still vainly hoping for the coming of Cornelius.
It was thus I sometimes saw my cousin Edith. Her great loveliness and rich attire impressed me strongly. Her room was below mine. I daily heard her, like a fair lady in her bower, playing on her lute, or warbling sweet songs; she was the beauty and enchanted princess of all my fairy tales; yet, when we met, the only notice she took of me was a cold and gentle "How are you, dear?" the reply to which she never stopped to hear. She generally walked with Mrs. Digby, who, drawing her attention to my evident admiration, never failed to observe as they passed by me, "The child can't take her eyes off you, Ma'am." "Hush! Digby," invariably replied the fair Edith, in a tone implying that she disapproved of the liberty, although the sweetness of her disposition induced her to forgive it. Mrs. Digby, however, persisted in repeating her offence, even when I was not looking, and was always checked with the same gentleness.
One day, when I came down, I found Miss Grainger no longer in the company of Mrs. Digby, but sitting in an arbour with a fair and fashionable lady of thirty, or so, whom she called Bertha, and who, after eyeing me through her gold eye-glass, impressively observed, as, without noticing them, I took my usual place: "Edith, such are the consequences of love- matches! Mr. Langton—"
"But he is so old, Bertha," interrupted Edith, pouting.
"So I thought of Mr. Brand, when I married him; but it is not generous to be always thinking of age. Ah! love is very selfish, Edith."
Miss Grainger raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
"My dearest girl," said the lady, "be generous; be unselfish. Mr. Langton will be so kind—he has the means, you know,—and poor Edward—poor in every sense—can only—Edward, what brought you here?"
She addressed the same young man whom I had admitted, and who had now suddenly stepped from behind the arbour where the two ladies sat. He gave the speaker an angry look, and taking the hand of my cousin, he hastily led her away down one of the garden paths, talking earnestly. The lady bit her lip, followed them with a provoked glance, and stood waiting their return. She had to wait some time. At length young Mr. Thornton appeared; he looked pale, desperate, strode past the lady, opened the gate by which I stood, entered the grounds, leaped over a fence, and vanished. Edith came up more slowly. She was crying, and looked frightened. The lady went up to her.
"Well!" she said, eagerly.
"Edward says he'll kill himself!" sobbed Edith.
"My dear," sighed her friend, "Arthur said so too when we parted. He is alive still. I am Edward's sister, and yet, you see, I am quite easy. Do not fret, dear. You must come with me to the Mitfords this evening."
"I can't, Bertha."
"My dearest girl, you must. It is extremely selfish to brood over sorrow."
With this she kissed her, and they entered the house together.
"Burns, come in to dinner," said the voice of Mrs. Marks, addressing me from the arched doorway.
I obeyed, and, for some unexplained reason, was consigned to my room during the rest of the day, which I spent by the window, still watching for my friend with a patient persistent hope that would not be conquered. I was so absorbed that I never heard Mrs. Marks enter, until she said, close behind me, "Burns, what are you always looking out of that window for?"
Before I could reply, a sharp voice inquired from the corridor:
"Mrs. Marks, who is it I have twice this day heard you addressing by the extraordinary name of Burns?"
We both looked round. Mrs. Marks had left my door open; exactly opposite it stood a ladder leading to a trap-door in the roof of the house, through which Mr. Thornton, who had gone to survey the progress of an observatory he was causing to be erected there, now appeared descending.
"That child won't tell her other name, Sir," replied Mrs. Marks, reddening.
"Do you know it?"
"She won't tell it, Sir."
My grandfather fastened his keen black eyes full on me, and signed me to approach. He stood on the last step of the ladder. I went up to him; he gave my head a quick survey, then suddenly fixed the tip of his forefinger somewhere towards the summit, and exclaimed, in a tone that showed he had settled the bump and the question: "Firmness large; secretiveness too; but good moral and intellectual development. What is your name?"
"Margaret," I replied, unhesitatingly.
Margaret had been my mother's name. Mr. Thornton turned away at once.
"Margaret, go back to your room," shortly said Mrs. Marks.
Mr. Thornton was descending the staircase. He stopped to turn round, and observed, with great emphasis, "Miss Margaret, will you please to go back to your room?"
He went down without uttering another word.
Mrs. Marks became scarlet; and, declaring that she was not going to Miss Margaret any one, she retired to her own apartment in high dudgeon. I thought to spend this autumn evening, as usual, in the companionship of lamp, fire, books, and toys; but scarcely had Mrs. Marks brought me my light, and retired again, when Miss Grainger entered.
Was it tardy pity? Had my grandfather spoken to her? or had she come, like the fairy godmother of poor forlorn Cinderella, to visit me in all her splendour, and fill my room with a fleeting vision of elegance and beauty? Her tears had ceased, her sorrow was over; she was evidently going out for the evening: and she looked triumphant, like a long-captive princess emerging from her enchanted tower. Her dark ringlets fell on shoulders of ivory; her bright blue eyes sparkled with joy; the sweetest of smiles played on her enchanting face. A robe of rose-coloured silk fell to her feet in rustling folds; strings of pearls were wreathed in her hair, encircled her neck, and clasped her white arms. I gazed on her, mute with wonder and admiration. She looked gracious; but I ventured to touch her! She drew back with extreme alarm, glanced at her robe, and gently extending her hands before her person, to keep me at a safe distance, she smiled sweetly at me, with—"Yes, I know; good night, dear."
With this she vanished.
Why did she leave me far more chill and lonely than she had found me? Why did I remember the tender caresses of my dead father, and the embrace of Cornelius in the garden, and feel very dreary and desolate? Providence often answers our feelings and our thoughts in a manner that is both touching and strange. Ere long the door again opened; I looked up, and saw—Cornelius O'Reilly.
What between surprise and joy, I could neither move nor speak. When the young man closed the door, came up to me, sat down by me, and, with a kiss, asked cheerfully, "Well, Margaret, how are you?" I hid my face on his shoulder, and began to cry. But he made me look up, and said with concern, "How pale and thin you are, child!—are you ill?"
"No," I answered, astonished.
Cornelius looked around him, at the fire with the guard, at the table with my books and playthings, at me; then observed, "Why are you alone?"
"I am always alone."
"Does no one come near you?"
"No one."
"Does your grandfather never send for you?"
"Oh no!"
"Who takes care of you?"
"Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper."
"Do you never leave this room?"
"I can go down if I like; but it tires me."
"Poor little thing! how do you spend your time?"
"In the daytime I look out of the window; in the evening I play by myself."
"Have you no children to play with?"
"No, none."
"And what do you learn?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!" he echoed.
"Yes, nothing."
"Have you no lessons?"
"No; Mrs. Marks says, that, as I can read well, and write a little, it is enough."
"Enough!" indignantly exclaimed Cornelius; but he checked himself to observe, "Mrs. Marks knows nothing about it; a good education is the least Mr. Thornton can give his grand-daughter."
He was not questioning me; but I looked at him, and said, bluntly, "I am to get a common-place education; I am not to be a lady."
"Who says so?" indignantly asked Cornelius.
"Mr. Thornton."
"How do you know?"
"He said it, before me, to Miss Grainger. He said I was to be neither a governess nor a lady; and that a common-place education, and some decent occupation, were to be my destiny." The words had stung me to the quick at the time, and had never been forgotten. As I repeated them, the blood rushed up to the face of Cornelius O'Reilly; his look lit; his lip trembled with all the quickness of emotion of his race.
"But you shall be a lady," he exclaimed, with rapid warmth. "Your father, who was an Irish gentleman born and bred, gave me the education of a gentleman; and I will give you the education of a lady,—so help me God!"
He drew and pressed me to him. I looked up at him, and said, "I should not take up much room." He seemed surprised at the observation.
I continued—"And Mrs. Marks says I eat so little." Cornelius looked perplexed.
"Will you take me with you?" I asked earnestly.
Cornelius drew in a long breath.
"You are an odd child!" he said.
I passed my arms around his neck, and asked again, "Will you take me with you?"
"Why do you want me to take you?"
I hung down my head, and did not answer. The strange unconquerable shyness of childhood was on me, and rendered me tongue-tied. Cornelius gently raised my face, so that it met his look, and smiled at seeing it grow hot and flushed beneath his gaze.
"Do you really want me to take you?" he asked, after a pause.
I looked up quickly; I said nothing; but if childhood has no words to render its feelings, it has eloquent looks easily read. Cornelius was at no loss to understand the meaning of mine.
"Indeed, then, if I can I will," he replied earnestly.
"Oh! we can get out by the back-door," I said, quickly.
"My dear," answered Cornelius, gravely, "never leave a house by the back- door, unless in case of fire; besides, it would look like an elopement. We must speak to Mr. Thornton."
I could not see the necessity of this; but I submitted to his decision, and, taking his hand, I accompanied him downstairs. No stray domestic was visible, not even the little servant appeared. Cornelius looked around him, then resolutely knocked at the door of my grandfather's study. A sharp "Come in!" authorized us to enter. This time Mr. Thornton had exchanged the magnifying glass and the beetle for a pair of compasses and an immense map which covered the whole table. He looked up; and, on perceiving Cornelius, exclaimed, with a ludicrous expression of dismay, "Sir, have you brought me another little girl?"
"No, Sir," replied Cornelius smiling; "this is the same."
"Oh! the same, is it?"
"No; not quite the same," resumed Cornelius; "the child, whom I left here a month ago, is strangely altered; question her yourself, Sir, and ascertain the manner in which, without your wish or knowledge, I feel assured, your grand-daughter has been treated in your house."
My grandfather gave the young man a sharp look, and his brown face darkened in meaning if not in hue.
"Come here," he said, addressing me; "and remember, that, though you have large secretiveness, I must have the truth."
I looked at Cornelius; he nodded; I went up to Mr. Thornton, who looked keenly at my face, and, as if something there suggested the question, abruptly asked, "Do you get enough to eat?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why don't you eat, then?"
"But I do eat."
"Why does Mrs. Marks strike you?"
"She never strikes me," I replied indignantly.
"But why does she ill-use you?"
"She does not ill-use me; she dare not."
Mr. Thornton looked at Cornelius with ironical triumph. The young man seemed disgusted, and said warmly, "I never meant, sir, that Margaret Burns was a starved, ill-used child. Heaven forbid! But I meant to say that she is left to solitude, idleness, and disgraceful ignorance."
"Upon my word, Mr. O'Reilly," observed Mr. Thornton, pushing away his map, as if to survey Cornelius better,—"upon my word, you meddle in my family arrangements with praiseworthy coolness."
"Mr. Thornton," replied Cornelius, not a whit disconcerted, and looking at him very calmly, "I brought the child to you; this gives me a right to interfere, which you have yourself acknowledged by not checking me at once."
Mr. Thornton gave him an odd look, then grunted a sort of assent, looked at his map, and said impatiently—
"Granted; but not that the child is not treated as she ought to be. Still, within reasonable bounds, she shall be judge in her own case. Do you hear?" he added, turning towards me, "if you want for anything, say so, and you shall get it."
"I want to go away," I said at once.
"Very well; I shall send you to school."
"But I want to go with Mr. O'Reilly."
"Mr. O'Reilly is welcome to you," sarcastically replied my grandfather; "he may take you, drop you on the way, do what he likes with you—if he chooses to have you!" I ran to Cornelius.
"Shall I get ready?" I asked eagerly.
"My dear," he gently replied, "Mr. Thornton means to send you to school, where you will learn many things."
"She will not be troubled with much learning," drily observed Mr.Thornton.
"Surely, Sir," remonstrated Cornelius, "the poor child is to be educated?"
"Sir, she is not to be a fine lady."
"Allow me to observe—"
"Sir, I will allow you to take her away and do what you like with her; but not to observe."
"I take you at your word," warmly replied Cornelius, on whom Mr. Thornton bestowed an astonished look; "take her I will, and educate her too. It would be strange if I could not do for her father's child what that father did for me! I thank you, Sir, for that which brought me here, but which I scarcely knew how to ask for."
My grandfather looked at me, and made an odd grimace, as if not considering me a particularly valuable present. Still, and though taken at his word, he seemed scarcely pleased.
"Well," he said at length, "be it so. I certainly do not care much about the child myself, not being able to forget where that face of hers came from—you do; you want to make a penniless lady of her; she wants to go with you: have both your wish. If she should prove troublesome or in the way, send her back to me, or, in my absence, to Mrs. Marks. You distinctly understand that I am willing to provide for her; though, I suppose," he added, looking at Cornelius, "I must not propose—"
"No, Sir," gravely interrupted the young man.
"Very well; provide for her too, since such is your fancy. Take her; you are welcome to her."
And thus it was decided; and in less than a quarter of an hour we had not only left Thornton House, but the surly porter at the lodge had closed his iron gates upon us, and we were on our way to Ryde, whence Cornelius wished to proceed to London, straight on, that same evening.
After walking on for awhile in utter silence, Cornelius said to me—
"Are you tired. Margaret?"
"Oh no!" I answered eagerly.
Indeed the question seemed to take away my sense of fatigue. For some time, the fear of being left behind lent me fictitious strength; but at length my sore and weary feet could carry me no further; in the wildest and most desolate part of the road I was obliged to stop short.
"What is the matter?" asked Cornelius.
"I can't go on," I replied, despondingly.
"Can't you, indeed?"
"No," I said, sitting down on a milestone, and feeling ready to cry, "I can't at all."
"Well, then, if you can't at all," coolly observed Cornelius, "I must carry you."
"I am very heavy!" I objected, astonished at the suggestion.
He laughed, and attempted to lift me up, but I resisted.
"Oh! it will fatigue you so!" I said.
"No, nature has given me such extraordinary strength that I can bear without fatigue burdens—like you, for instance—beneath which other men would sink."
He raised me with an ease that justified his assertion. I clasped my arms around his neck, rested my head on his shoulder, and feeling how firm and secure was his hold, I yielded with a pleasurable sensation to a mode of conveyance which I found both novel and luxurious. I could not however help asking once, with lingering uneasiness, "If he did not feel tired?"
"No; strange to say, and heavy as you are, I do not: but why do you shiver? Are you cold?"
"No, thank you," I replied, but my teeth chattered as I spoke.
"I hope it is nothing worse than cold," uneasily observed Cornelius, stopping short; "undo the clasp of my cloak, and bring it around you."
I obeyed; he helped to wrap me up in the warm and ample folds, and we resumed our journey, a moment interrupted. He walked fast; we soon reached Ryde; but he would not let me come to light until we were safely housed. I heard a staid voice observing—
"Your carpet-bag. I presume, Sir. It will be quite safe here."
"It is not a carpet-bag," replied Cornelius, unwrapping me, and depositing me in a small ill-lit back parlour, with a grim landlady looking on.
"Your carpet-bag will be quite safe here," she resumed.
"I have none." She looked aghast. A little girl, and no carpet-bag!
"Yours, Sir, I presume?" she steadily observed.
"Mine!" echoed Cornelius, reddening, "no."
"Your sister, I presume, Sir?" persisted the landlady.
"She is no relative," he shortly answered; then, without heeding her, he felt my forehead, took my hand, said both were burning; looked at his watch, pondered, and finally startled the landlady—who had remained in the room taciturn and suspicious—with the abrupt query—
"Is there a medical man about here, Ma'am?"
"There is Mr. Wood."
"Be so kind as to send for him; I fear this child is ill."
She looked mistrustful, but complied with the request, and in about ten minutes returned with a sleek little man in black, who bowed himself into the room, peeped at my tongue, held my wrist delicately suspended between his thumb and forefinger, then for the space of a minute looked intently at the ceiling, with his right eye firmly shut, and his tongue shrewdly screwed in the left corner of his mouth. At length he dropped my hand, opened his eye, put in his tongue, and gravely said:
"The young lady is only a little feverish."
"You are quite sure it is nothing worse?" observed Cornelius, seeming much relieved.
"Quite sure," decisively replied Mr. Wood; "but concerning the young lady—not your daughter, Sir?"
"No!" was the indignant answer.
"Concerning this young lady," placidly resumed Mr. Wood, "I wish to observe that she is of an excitable temperament, requiring—Not your sister?" he added, again breaking off into an inquiry.
"No, Sir," impatiently replied Cornelius.
"Of an excitable temperament, requiring gentle exercise, indulgence, little study, and none of those violent emotions," (here he held up his forefinger in solemn warning,) "none of those violent emotions which sap the springs of life in the youthful being. Not your ward?" he observed, with another negative inquiry.
"No!—Yes!" hesitatingly said Cornelius.
"In the youthful being—" again began Mr. Wood.
"Excuse me, Sir," impatiently interrupted Cornelius, "but the coach will soon pass by; is there anything that can be done for the child?"
"Yes, Sir," drily answered Mr. Wood, "there are several things to be done for the young lady; the first is to put her to bed directly."
"To bed?" uneasily said Cornelius.
"Directly. The second, to administer a sedative draught, that will make her spend the night in a state of deep repose."
"Then we must actually sleep here?"
"Of deep repose. The third is not to attempt moving her for the next twelve hours."
"Remember, Sir, you said it was only feverishness."
"It is nothing morenow," replied the inexorable Mr. Wood, in a tone threatening anything from scarlatina to typhus if his directions were disregarded. Cornelius sighed, submitted, asked for the sedative draught, and consigned me to the care of the grim landlady.
I allowed her to undress me and put me to bed in a dull little room upstairs; but when she attempted to make me take the sedative, duly sent round by Mr. Wood, I buried my face in the pillow. Though she said "Miss!" in a most threatening accent, she could not conquer my mute obstinacy. She departed in great indignation.
Soon after she had left, the door opened, and Cornelius entered. He looked grave. I prepared for a lecture, but he only sat down by me and said very gently, "Margaret, why will you not drink the sedative?"
I did not answer. He tasted the beverage, then said earnestly, "It is not unpleasant; try."
He wanted to approach the cup to my lips, but I turned away, and said with some emotion, "I don't want to sleep."
"Why so, child?"
"Because I shall not wake up in time; you will go away and leave me."
"Margaret, why should I leave you?"
"Because you don't like me as Papa did; you do not care about me," I replied, a little excitedly; for I was now quite conscious that the affection was all on my side.
He looked surprised at the reproach and all it implied, and to my mortification he also looked amused. I turned my face to the wall; he bent over me and saw that my eyes were full of tears.
"Crying!" he said chidingly.
"You laugh at me," I replied indignantly.
"Which is a shame," he answered, vainly striving to repress a smile; "but whether or not, Margaret, you must oblige me by drinking this."
He spoke authoritatively. I yielded, and took the cup from him; but in so doing I gave him a look which must have been rather appealing, for he said with some warmth, "On my word, child, I shall not leave you behind. Why, I would as soon give up a pet lamb to the butcher as let you go back to Thornton House,—or turn out a poor unfledged bird from the nest as forsake a helpless little creature like you."
I drank at once. To reward my obedience, Cornelius said he would stay with me until I had fallen asleep. I tried to delay the moment as long as I could, but, conquered by a power mightier than my will, I was gradually compelled to yield. I remember the amused smile of the young man at my unavailing efforts to keep my eyes open and fixed on his face; then follows a sudden blank and darkness, into which even he has vanished.
I awoke the next morning cool, well, and free from fever. The landlady dressed me in surly silence, then led me down to the little parlour, where I found Cornelius reading the newspaper by the breakfast table. He seemed much pleased to find that the fever had left me, and observed with a smile, "Well, Margaret, did I run away?"
I hung down my head ashamed.
"Why, my poor child," he added, drawing me towards him, "I should be a perfect savage to dream of such a thing; besides, how ungallant to go and desert a lady in distress! Never more could Cornelius O'Reilly—a disgrace to his name and country—show his face after so dark a deed."
He was laughing at me again; I did not mind it now; but as the grim landlady, who had lingered by, looked mystified, Cornelius amused himself by treating me with the most attentive and fastidious politeness during the whole of breakfast-time. To complete her satisfaction, and to make up for the missing carpet-bag, she was edified by the arrival of Miss Burns's luggage from Thornton House.
We left early. We rode outside the stage-coach. It was a fine autumn day, and the journey was pleasant until evening came on; Cornelius then drew me closer to him, and shared with me the folds of his ample cloak. The unusual warmth and motion soon sent me to sleep. Once or twice I woke to the momentary consciousness of a starlight night, and trees and houses rapidly passing before me; but after this all was darkness; the cloak had shrouded me completely. I merely opened my eyes to close them again and fall asleep, with my head resting against Cornelius, and his arm passed around me to save me from falling.
I have a vague remembrance of reaching a large and noisy city, of leaving the stage-coach to enter a cab, where I again fell fast to sleep, and at length of awaking with a start, as Cornelius said, "Margaret, we are at home."
The cab had stopped; Cornelius had got out; he lifted me down even as he spoke, and the cab rolled away along the lonely lane in which we stood.
I felt a little bewildered. The night and the spot were both dark; all I could see was a low garden-wall, half lost in the shadow of a few tall trees, and a narrow wooden door. The gleam of light that appeared through the chinks, and the sound of a quick step on the gravel within, spared Cornelius the trouble of ringing. The door opened of its own accord, and on the threshold appeared a lady in black, holding a low lamp in her right hand. We entered; she closed the door upon us, and, almost immediately, flung the arm that was free around the neck of Cornelius.
"God bless you!" she exclaimed eagerly, and speaking in a warm ardent tone, that sounded like a gentle echo of his; "God bless you! I have been so wretched!"
"Did you not get my letter?"
"Yes, but I had such a dream!"
"A dream! Oh Kate!" he spoke with jesting reproach, but pausing in the path, he stooped and kissed his sister several times, each time more tenderly.
"How is the child? Where is she?" asked Miss O'Reilly.
"She is here, and well. By the bye, I have left her little property outside."
"Deborah shall fetch it. Take her in."
We were entering the house, which stood at the end of the garden.
"This way, Margaret," said Cornelius, leading me into a small, but comfortable and elegant-looking parlour, which took my fancy at once. The furniture, though simple, was both good and handsome; the walls were adorned with a few pictures and engravings in gilt frames; a well-filled book-case faced the rosewood piano; a large table, covered with books, occupied the centre of the room, and a stand of splendid flowers stood in the deep bow-window.
"Well!" carelessly said Miss O'Reilly, who had followed us in almost immediately, "where is that little Sassenach girl?"
"Here she is, Kate," replied Cornelius, leading me to his sister; he stood behind me, his hand lightly resting on my shoulder, and looking at her, I felt sure, for, in the stoic sadness of her gaze, there was something of a glance returned. She lowered the light, gave me a cursory look, put by the lamp, and sat down on a low chair by the fire, on which she kept her eyes intently fixed.
Miss O'Reilly was very like her brother, and almost as good-looking, though at least ten or twelve years older. She was fresh as a rose, and had the dark hair, finely arched eyebrows, clear hazel eyes, and handsome features of Cornelius; but the expression of countenance was different. It was as decided, but more calm; as kind, but scarcely as good-humoured. She was very simply attired in black; her glossy and luxuriant hair was braided, and fastened at the back of her head with jet pins; jet bracelets clasped her wrists. As she sat leaning back in her chair, her hands clasped on her knees, even that simple attire and careless attitude could not disguise the elegant symmetry of her figure; her hands were small and perfect.
"Well!" said Cornelius in a low tone.
"Well!" replied his sister, smiling at the fire with sorrowful triumph in her clear eyes; "she is like her father; she has his eyes; pity she has not his hair, instead of those pale and sickly flaxen locks. Come here, little thing," she added, looking up at me, and holding out her hand.
I hesitated.
"She is very shy, Kate," said Cornelius.
"I shall cure her of her shyness. Come here, Midge."
I obeyed, and took her extended hand. She had the open, direct manner of which children are quick to feel the power; her likeness to her brother made me more communicative than I usually was with strangers.
"My name is not Midge," I said to her.
"Then it ought to have been, you mite of a thing!"
"My name is Margaret; it was Mamma's name."
Miss O'Reilly dropped my hand, and rose somewhat abruptly. Then she took my hand again and said calmly—
"Come, child, you look dusty and tired, after your journey."
She led me upstairs to a cheerful-looking bed-room, where she unpacked my wardrobe, and changed my whole attire, with a prompt dexterity that seemed natural to her. When we returned to the parlour we found Cornelius lying at full length on a sofa drawn before the hearth; a dark cushion pillowed his handsome head; the flickering fire-light played on his face. His sister went up to him at once; she passed her white hand in his dark hair, and bending over him, said tenderly, as if speaking to a child—
"Poor boy! you are tired."
He shook his head, and laughed up in her face.
"Not a bit, Kate. Where is she?"
He half raised his head to look for me; signed me to approach, and made room for me on the sofa. I sat down and looked at him and his sister, who stood lingering there, smiling silently over him, and still passing her slender fingers in his luxuriant hair. The light fell on their two faces, almost equally handsome, and to which their striking resemblance gave a charm beyond that of mere contrast. To trace in both the same symmetrical outlines of form and feature, was to recognize the loveliness of nature's gifts, received and perpetuated for generations in the same race; and to look at them thus in their familiar tenderness, was to feel the beauty and holiness of kindred blood. Child as I was, I was moved with the tender sweetness of Miss O'Reilly's smile; it preceded however a question more kind than romantic.
"What will you have with your tea? Ham?"
"Nothing, Kate; we dined on the road."
"Will she?"
"You mean—"
"Yes," she interrupted impatiently.
He looked at his sister, who went up to the table, then put the question to me. I wished for nothing; so Miss O'Reilly simply rang the bell; a demure-looking servant brought in the tray. When the tea was made and poured out, Miss O'Reilly said to me, in her short way—
"Child, Thing, give that cup to Cornelius."
"But my name is Margaret," I objected, a little nettled at being called"Thing."
"I know it is," she replied in a low tone.
"Margaret," musingly repeated Cornelius, taking the cup I was handing to him, "diminutives, Meg, Peg, and by way of variety Peggy; which do you prefer, child?"
"I don't like any of them," I frankly replied.
"Mar-ga-ret! three syllables! I could not afford the time; Katherine has come down to Kate.—you must be Meg."
I sat at the table taking my tea. I laid down the cup with dismay.
"I don't like Meg," I said.
"Well then, Peg."
"I don't like Peg, either."
"Well then, Peggy."
"I hate Peggy!" I indignantly exclaimed.
"Let the child alone!" said Miss O'Reilly.
"Meg, my dear, a little more milk, if you please," calmly observed Cornelius. Though ready to cry with mortification, I acknowledged the name by complying with his request.
"Thank you, Meg," he said, returning the milk-jug.
"Let the child alone," again put in his sister.
"She is my property, and I shall call her as I choose," quietly repliedCornelius. "I don't like the name of Mar-ga-ret."
"Papa said there was not a prettier name," I objected.
"That is a matter of taste," almost sharply replied Cornelius; "I thinkKatherine is a much prettier name."
He reddened as he spoke, whilst his sister pushed back her untasted tea.
"He said Margaret was the name of a flower," I persisted,—"of the China- aster."
"Which you do not resemble a bit," inexorably replied Cornelius; "the garden has shorter and prettier names; Rose, Lily, Violet, etc."
"I like my own name best."
"Meg! No; well then Peg. What!—not Peg! which then?"
"I don't care which," I replied despondingly.
He saw that my eyes were full of tears, and yet that I submitted.
"Poor little thing!" he observed with a touch of pity. "I must think of something else.—Let me see.—Eureka! Kate, what do you say to Daisy, the botanical diminutive of Margaret?"
"Anything you like, Cornelius," she replied sadly, "but don't teaze the poor child."
"She shall decide."
He called me to him, and left the matter to me. I was glad to escape fromMeg and Peg; and Daisy I was called from that hour.
"You already have it quite your own way with that child," observed MissO'Reilly, looking at her brother; "and yet she looks a little wilful!"
"That is just what makes it pleasant having one's way with her," he replied, smiling down at me, as if amused at his triumph over my obstinacy, and gently pulling my hair by way of caress. "News from the city?" he added after a while.
"There came a message yesterday and two to-day."
Cornelius shook his head impatiently, in a manner habitual to him, and which was ever displaying the heavy masses of his dark hair, but, catching the eye of his sister, he smoothed his brow, and said, smiling—
"I am glad I am so precious."
"It was Mr. Trim who came this evening."
"Very kind of him to call on my handsome sister when I am out of the way."
"He says it is a pity you do not give more of your mind to business."
"I give ninety pounds' worth a year," disdainfully replied Cornelius, "the exact amount of my salary."
"He has got his long-promised government office, with a salary of five hundred a year," continued Miss O'Reilly.
Cornelius half started up on one elbow, to exclaim gaily—
"Kate! has he made you an offer?"
"Nonsense," she replied impatiently, "who is to take the place Trim is leaving vacant?"
"And to do his work," answered Cornelius, indolently sinking back into his previous attitude; "Faith! I don't know, Kate."
"Trim leaves next month," said Miss O'Reilly, looking at her brother.
"Let him, Kate."
"Will you allow that Briggs to step in?"
"Why not, poor fellow?"
Miss O'Reilly's brown eyes sparkled. She gave the fire a vigorous and indignant poke.
"Will you let that Briggs walk upon you?" she asked vehemently.
"Yes," answered Cornelius, yawning slightly, "I will, Kate."
"You have no spirit!"
"None."
He spoke with irritating carelessness. From reproach she changed to argument.
"It would make a great difference in the salary, Cornelius!"
"And in the work, Kate. I shudder to think of the dull letters that unfortunate Briggs will have to write. The tedious additions, subtractions, and divisions he must go through, make my head ache for him."
"Do you fear work, Cornelius?"
"I hate it, Kate."
Again she poked the fire; then looked up at her brother, and said decisively—
"I don't believe it."
He laughed.
"You idle? Nonsense! I don't believe it."
"Then you ought; nothing but the direct necessity daily hunts me to the city."
"I hate the city!"
"Why so, poor thing? It is only a little smoky, dingy, noisy, and foggy, after all."
"I wish," hotly observed Miss O'Reilly, "that instead of pulling that unfortunate child's hair as if it were the ear of a spaniel, you would talk sense. Come here, Primrose," she added, impatiently, addressing me.
Instead of going I looked at Cornelius. I sat by him on the edge of the sofa, and he was in the act of mechanically unrolling a stray lock of my hair.
"Well!" said Miss O'Reilly
He smiled; but his look said I was to obey his sister; I went up to her a little reluctantly. She made me sit down on a low cushion at her feet, then resumed—
"Cornelius, will you talk sense?"
"Kate, I will."
"Do you, or do you not, like the life you have chosen?"
He did not answer.
"I always thought a stool in an office unworthy of your talents and education. If you do not like it, leave it; if you do like it, seek at least to rise."
"Viz.: Get up on a higher stool, do more work, earn more money, and end the year as I began it—a poor devil of a clerk."
"Why be a clerk at all?"
"Because, though I am idle, I must work to live. Ask me no more, Kate; I have no more to tell you."
He threw himself back on the sofa in a manner that implied a sufficient degree of obstinacy.
"Will you have any supper?" asked his sister, as composedly as if nothing had passed between them.
"Yes, Kate, my dear," he answered pleasantly. She rose and left the room. As the door closed on her, Cornelius half rose and bent forward; from careless his face became serious; from indifferent, thoughtful and attentive, like that of one engaged in close argument; then he looked up and shook his head with a triumphant smile; but chancing to catch my eye, as I sat facing him on the low stool where Miss O'Reilly had left me, he started slightly, and exclaimed, with a touch of impatience—
"Don't look so like a fairy, child! take a book." And bending forward he took from the table a volume of engravings, which he handed to me, informing me I should find it more entertaining than his face. I never looked up from the volume until Deborah brought in the supper.
When the frugal meal was over, Miss O'Reilly took my hand, and led me to her brother. He was standing on the hearth; he looked down at me, laid his hand on my head, and quietly bade me good-night. His sister offered him her cheek.
"Are you not coming down again?" he asked.
"No. I feel sleepy."
He looked deep into her eyes.
"Nonsense!" she said impatiently, "no such a thing."
He passed his arm around her and smiled.
"How handsome you are, Kate!" he observed, with jesting flattery; "woe to my peace of mind when I meet—"
"Not a bit!" she interrupted with a blush and a sigh; "no dark-haired woman will ever endanger your peace. Give me a kiss and let me go."
He embraced her with a lingering tenderness that seemed to have a meaning, for she looked another way, and appeared moved. But at length he released her; she took my hand, led me up to her room, and undressed me in silence. She then looked at me, and said pointedly—
"Well!"
I thought she meant I was to kiss her. I offered to do so, but she put me away, and observed more emphatically than before—
"Well!"
I looked at her thoroughly puzzled.
"Bless me!" she said, in her warm way, "is the child a heathen! Midge, Daisy, whatever your name may be, don't you know that you must say your prayers before going to bed!"
"I always said my prayers to Papa," I replied, rather offended.
"Then kneel down and say them to me."
She sat on the edge of the bed; I knelt at her feet; she took my hands in hers, and fastening on me her clear brown eyes, she heard me to the end. Then she put me to bed, closed the curtains, and told me to sleep. I obeyed. I know not how long I had slept, when low moans awoke me. The light was still burning; I sat up softly, and looked through the opening of the curtains. The handsome sister of Cornelius was kneeling before a small table, on which stood a low lamp; its white circle of light fell on an open volume, but she was not reading; thrown back somewhat in the attitude of the penitent Magdalene, with her hands clasped, and her head sunk in her bosom, she was weeping bitterly. She whom I had seen but a few hours before fresh as a flower, cheerful, gay, was now pale as death, and seemed bowed down with grief. Tears ran down her check like rain, but the only words that passed her lips were those uttered by Christ in his agony on the Mount—"Thy will, not mine, be done!" And this she repeated over and over, as if vainly thirsting for the resignation she thus expressed.
I looked at her with wonder. At length she rose; I softly sank back into my place; scarcely had I done so, when Miss O'Reilly came up to the bed and opened the curtains. I closed my eyes almost without knowing why. She bent over me, I felt her breath soft and warm on my face; then a light though lingering kiss was pressed on my cheek. I did not dare to stir until I felt her lying down by my side; when I then looked, I found the room quite dark. Miss O'Reilly remained very still; for awhile I staid awake, wondering at what I had seen, but at length I fell fast asleep.
I awoke late on the following morning, dazzled by the sunshine which filled the room. I was alone, but on the staircase outside I heard Miss O'Reilly's voice, exclaiming—
"Deborah, will you never clean those door-steps?"
With this, she opened the door and came in. I looked at her; her cheek was fresh, her eyes were bright and clear. With a smile, she asked how I felt, said I did not look amiss, and helped me to rise and dress, chatting cheerfully all the time. A lonely breakfast awaited me in the back parlour; I looked in vain for Cornelius.
"He is gone to the City, and will not be back till five," said Miss O'Reilly. "What, already done! Why, child, how little you eat!" she added with concern; "go into the garden, and run about for awhile."
She opened a glass door, through which came a green and sunny glimpse of a pleasant-looking garden beyond. Without being small, it had the look of a bower, and a very charming bower it was, fragrant and wild. In the centre of a grass-plat rose an old sun-dial of grey stone, with many a green mossy tint. Around wound a circular path, between which and the wall extended a broad space filled with lilac-trees, laburnums, thickets of gorse and broom, and where, though half wild and neglected, also grew, according to their season, cool blue hyacinths, yellow crocuses with their glowing hearts, gay daffodils, pale primroses, snowdrops, shy hare- bells, fair lilies of the valley, tall foxgloves of many a rich dark hue, summer roses laden with perfume, stately holly-hocks, bright China- asters, and bending chrysanthemums—"a wilderness of sweets." The wall itself, when it could be seen, was not without some charm and verdure. It was old and crumbling, but bristling with bright snap-dragons, yellow with stonecrop above, and green below with dark ivy that trailed and crept along the ground. From a few rusty nails hung, torn and wild, banners of tangled honeysuckle and jasmine, haunted by the bees of a neighbouring hive. Two tall and noble poplars, growing on either side the wooden door by which Cornelius and I had entered, cast their narrow line of waving shadow over the whole place, which they filled with a low rustling murmur. The lane behind was silent; beyond it, and everywhere around, extended gardens, wide or small, where quiet dwellings rose in the shade and shelter of embowering trees; still further on, spread a rising horizon, bounded by lines of low hills, where grey clouds lay lazily sleeping all the day long.
On this autumn morning, Miss O'Reilly's garden was little more than warm, green, and sunny. The poplars had strewn it with sere and yellow leaves, and of the flowers none remained save a few late roses, China-asters, and chrysanthemums. I walked around it, then sat down on the flag at the foot of the sun-dial, and amused myself with looking at the house.
It was one of those low-roofed, red-tiled, and antiquated abodes, which can still be seen on the outskirts of London, daily removed, it is true, to make room for the modern cottage and villa. It stood between a quiet street and a lonely lane, a plain brick building, with many-paned windows, half hid by clustering ivy, which shadowed its projecting porch, and gave it a gloom both soft and deep. A screen of ivy sloping down to the garden-wall partly separated it from a larger house, to which, in point of fact, it belonged; both had originally formed one abode, but, for the purpose of letting, had thus been subdivided by Miss O'Reilly, whose property they had recently become. On either side, the double building was sheltered by young trees. It looked secluded, lone, and ancient: an abode where generations had lived and loved.
From contemplating it, I turned to watching a spider's web, one of my favourite occupations in our garden at Rock Cottage.
"Well!" said the frank voice of Miss O'Reilly.
I looked up; the sun fell full on the house, and on the three worn stone steps that led down to the garden, but she stood above them, beneath the ivied porch, where she looked fresh and cool, like a bright flower in the shade. She gazed at me with her head a little pensively inclined towards her right shoulder; then said gently—
"Why do you sit, instead of running about?"
"It tires me so."
"Poor little thing! but you must move. Come in; go about the house; walk up and down stairs; open the cupboards, look, do something."
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied, astonished however at her singular behests.
"You must call me Kate; say Kate."
I did so; for, like her brother, it was not easy to say her nay. With a kind smile, she sent me on my voyage of discovery. The only apartment that interested me was a room lying at the top of the house, and which I considered to be the lumber-room. It was filled with plaster casts and old dusty pictures without frames; the greater part were turned to the wall; a few that were exposed looked dull in the warm sun-light pouring in on them through the open window; before it stood a deal table, on which, after examining the pictures. I got up.
"Daisy, what are you doing there?" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, entering the room; "come down."
I obeyed, but said in a tone of chagrin—
"I cannot see the sea!"
"I should think not. Why did you turn those pictures?"
"I found them so, Kate."
She frowned slightly; turned them back, every one, then said gravely—
"You must not come here any more; it is the study of Cornelius. He reads and writes here."
"Did he paint them?" I asked, with sudden interest.
"No," was the short answer; "they are by my father, who has been dead some years."
"Why does he not paint pictures too?"
"Bless the child!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, turning on me a flushed and annoyed face; but she checked herself to observe, "He is at a bank, and has neither time nor inclination for painting."
With this we left the room, and went down to the front parlour, where she worked, and I amused myself with a book until the clock struck five. I then looked up at Miss O'Reilly.
"Yes," she said, smiling, "he will soon be here." But there was a delay of ten or fifteen minutes: she saw me restless with expectation, and good-naturedly told me I might go and look out for him at the back-door. I jumped up with an eagerness that again made her smile, and having promised not to pass the threshold of the garden, I ran out to watch for Cornelius, as I had formerly so often watched for my father. The lane was green, silent, and lonely, with high hawthorn hedges, a few overshadowing trees, and a narrow path ever encroached on by grass, weeds, and low trailing plants. Ere long I saw Cornelius appear in the distance; he walked with his eyes on the ground, and never saw me until he had reached the door. He entered, and in passing by me carelessly stroked my hair by way of greeting. To his sister, who stood waiting for him on the last step of the house, he gave the embrace without which they never met or parted.
The tea was made and waiting. Miss O'Reilly poured it out, and called me from where I sat apart, feeling shy and unnoticed, to hand his cup to her brother, who was again lying on the sofa. He asked how I had behaved.
"Too well; she is too quiet."
"Shall we send her to school!" said Cornelius.
I turned round from the table, to give him an entreating look, which he did not heed.
"She is too weak; we must teach her ourselves," replied his sister.
I heard the decision with great relief. A school was my horror. When the meal was over, I made my way to Cornelius, and half whispered—
"Willyouteach me?"
"Perhaps so; well, don't look disappointed—I will."
"What do you know?"
"Grammar, history, geography—"
"I can vouch for the geography," interrupted Miss O'Reilly.
"We shall see."
He examined me; I did my best to answer well, and waited for his verdict with a beating heart.
"What do you think of her?" asked his sister, who now re-entered the room, which she had left for awhile.
"She won't fit in it!" replied Cornelius, giving me a perplexed look.
"What?"
"Ah! I forgot to tell you. I bought her a cot, or crib—what do you call it?—I fear she won't fit in it! Can't we shorten her?"
"You have bought her a bed!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, looking confounded, and laying down her work.
"Yes; come here, Daisy."
He measured me with his eye, then added triumphantly, "She will fit in it; it is just her size, Kate! see if it is not, when it arrives! just her size."
"Just her size! bless the boy! does he not mean the poor child to grow?"
"Faith!" exclaimed Cornelius, looking astonished, "I never thought of that, never!—and yet," he added thoughtfully, "I think I can remember her shorter than she is now."
"You are the most foolish lad in all Ireland!" hotly observed Miss O'Reilly, with whom, though she had left it many years, her native country was ever present.
She gave him a scolding, which he bore with perfect good-humour. A little mollified by this, she changed the subject by asking—
"Well, how did the child answer?"
"Oh,—hem! Oh, very well, of course."
He had already forgotten all about it, as I felt, with some mortification. Quite unconscious of this, he rose, opened the piano, and turning to his sister, said—
"What shall I sing you, Kate?"
"Anything you like,—one of the Melodies."
She sat back to listen, with her hand across her eyes, whilst, in a rich harmonious voice, her brother sang one of those wild and beautiful Irish melodies,—plaintive as the songs of their own land which the captives of Sion sang by the rivers of Babylon. I listened, entranced, until he closed the piano, and read aloud to his sister from a book of travels, which sent me fast asleep.
Happy are the bereaved children whom Providence leads to the harbour of such a home as I had found! Cornelius and his sister lived in a retired way; their tastes were simple; their means moderate; but their home, though quiet, was pleasant like a shady bower, where the waving trees let in ever-new glimpses of the blue sky, with gliding sun beams and many a wandering breeze. There was a genial light and vivacity about them; an endless variety of moods, never degenerating into ill-temper; a pleasant union of shrewdness, simplicity, and originality, which lent a great charm to their daily intercourse. To be with them was to breathe an atmosphere of cheerful, living peace, far removed from the fatal and enervating calmness which makes a pain of repose.
I knew them at the least troubled period of their lives. They were the children, by different mothers, of an ambitious and disappointed artist, who had left Ireland ardent with hope, and after vainly struggling against obscurity for a few years, had died in London, poor, miserable, and broken-hearted.
For some years his daughter supported herself and her young brother by teaching; then my father, who had long known them, came to her aid, and insisted on defraying the expenses of the education of Cornelius. She struggled on alone, until, about a year before I saw her, an old relative, who had never assisted her in her poverty, died, leaving her a moderate income, and the house in which we now resided. Towards the same time Cornelius, who had completed his studies, instead of entering one of the learned professions, as his sister urged him to do, accepted of a situation in the City. This was one of the few subjects on which they differed; but it was seldom alluded to, and never allowed to disturb the harmony of their home. On most points they agreed; on none more entirely than in taking every care of their adopted child.
Cornelius had a memory tenacious of benefits and injuries. He thought himself bound to watch over the orphan daughter of his benefactor and friend. He took me, indeed, to my grandfather—my natural protector; but, on learning from Miss Murray the footing on which I was said to be treated in Mr. Thornton's house, he at once set off to obtain possession of me, "if possible," not being quite prepared for the ease with which his object was accomplished.
I rejoiced in the change, as might a plant removed from deadly shade to living sunshine. My health improved; I became more cheerful. Every day I walked out with Kate in the neighbourhood. It was then one of the prettiest suburbs about London. We lived in a street called the "Grove," and which deserved its name, for it was planted with old trees, and passed like a broad walk through the gardens on either side, where, like brown nests in a green hedge, appeared a few ancient houses irregularly built, and still more irregularly scattered. But its lanes were the great attraction of this vicinity.