‘What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilment of his own prophecies.’

‘It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one’s nerves.’

‘Mr. Moore, go home!’

‘So soon?’

‘Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lane and plantations.’

‘It is early yet.’

‘It is late; for my part I am going in. Will you promise me not to wander in the Hollow to-night?’

‘If you wish it.’

‘I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless?’

‘By no means; on the contrary, of late I regard my life as invaluable.’

‘Of late?’

‘Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now, and it was both three months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was stretched to me—such a delicate hand I scarcely dared trust it—its strength, however, has rescued me from ruin.’

‘Are you really rescued?’

‘For the time; your assistance has given me another chance.’

‘Live to make the best of it. Don’t offer yourself as a target to Michael Hartley, and good-night!’

Miss Helstone was under a promise to spend the evening of the next day at Fieldhead; she kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent in the interval. Most of the time had been passed shut up in her own apartment; only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, and anticipating inquiries from Fanny by telling her that she was busy altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.

She did sew, she plied her needle continuously, ceaselessly; but her brain worked faster than her fingers. Again, and more intensely than ever, she desired a fixed occupation—no matter how onerous, how irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she would consult Mrs. Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently as her hands to plait and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summer dress spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now and then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and fall on her busy hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quickly effaced; the sharp pang passed, the dimness cleared from her vision, she would re-thread her needle, rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.

Late in the afternoon she dressed herself; she reached Fieldhead, and appeared in the oak parlour just as tea was brought in. Shirley asked her why she came so late.

‘Because I have been making my dress,’ said she. ‘These fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up a lighter garment.’

‘In which you look as I like to see you,’ said Shirley. ‘You are a ladylike little person, Caroline, is she not, Mrs. Pryor?’