Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her work, and afterwards assisted her to dress.

‘You’ll not be an old maid, Miss Caroline,’ she said, as she tied the sash of her brown-silk frock, having previously smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls; ‘there are no signs of an old maid about you.’

Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she thought there were some signs. She could see that she was altered within the last month; that the hues of her complexion were paler, her eyes changed—a wan shade seemed to circle them, her countenance was dejected; she was not, in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She distinctly hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answer, only a remark that people did vary in their looks; but that at her age a little falling away signified nothing—she would soon come round again, and be plumper and rosier than ever. Having given this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrapping her up-in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly smothered with the weight, was fain to resist further additions.

She paid her visits: first to Miss Mann, for this was the most difficult point; Miss Mann was certainly not quite a lovable person. Till now Caroline had always unhesitatingly declared she disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing at some of her peculiarities. Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm, especially on anything humbler or weaker than himself; but he had once or twice happened to be in the room when Miss Mann had made a call on his sister, and after listening to her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he had gone out into the garden where his little cousin was tending some of his favourite flowers, and while standing near and watching her, he had amused himself with comparing fair youth—delicate and attractive—with shrivelled eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the vinegar discourse of a cankered old maid. Once on such an occasion Caroline had said to him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she was binding to its frame:

‘Ah! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come under the lash of your sarcasm, if I were an old maid.’

‘You an old maid!’ he had replied. ‘A piquant notion suggested by lips of that tint and form. I can fancy you, though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your voice, which has another “timbre” than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann’s. Courage, Cary!—even at fifty you will not be repulsive.’

‘Miss Mann did not make herself, or tune her voice, Robert.’

‘Nature made her in the mood in which she makes her briars and thorns; whereas for the creation of some women she reserves the May morning hours, when with light and dew she woos the primrose from the turf, and the lily from the wood-moss.’

Ushered into Miss Mann’s little parlour, Caroline found her, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a virtue in old maids that solitude rarely makes them negligent or disorderly?); no dust on her polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on her table, a bright fire in the grate. She herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-tidy in a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with some knitting; this was her favourite work, as it required the least exertion. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered; to avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann’s aims in life; she had been composing herself ever since she came down in the morning, and had just attained a certain lethargic state of tranquillity when the visitor’s knock at the door startled her, and undid her day’s work. She was scarcely pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone; she received her with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fixed her with her eye.

This was no ordinary doom—to be fixed with Miss Mann’s eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had never forgotten the circumstance.

He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could do; he professed to doubt whether, since that infliction, his flesh had been quite what it was before—whether there was not something stony in its