where they were last night: we know they little conjectured where we were. Men, I believe, fancy women’s minds something like those of children. Now, that is a mistake.’

This was said as she stood at the glass, training her naturally waved hair into curls, by twining it round her fingers. She took up the theme again five minutes after, as Caroline fastened her dress and clasped her girdle.

‘If men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often under an illusion about women: they do not read them in a true light: they misapprehend them, both for good and evil: their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel; their bad woman almost always a fiend. Then to hear them fall into ecstasies with each other’s creations, worshipping the heroine of such a poem—novel—drama, thinking it fine—divine! Fine and divine it may be, but often quite artificial—false as the rose in my best bonnet there. If I spoke all I think on this point, if I gave my real opinion of some first-rate female characters in first-rate works, where should I be? Dead under a cairn of avenging stones in half an hour.’

‘Shirley, you chatter so, I can’t fasten you; be still. And after all, authors’ heroines are almost as good as authoress’s heroes.’

‘Not at all: women read men more truly than men read women. I’ll prove that in a magazine paper some day when I’ve time; only it will never be inserted; it will be “declined with thanks,” and left for me at the publisher’s.’

‘To be sure: you could not write cleverly enough; you don’t know enough; you are not learned, Shirley.’

‘God knows, I can’t contradict you, Cary: I’m as ignorant as a stone. There’s one comfort, however, you are not much better.’

They descended to breakfast.

‘I wonder how Mrs. Pryor and Hortense Moore have passed the night,’ said Caroline, as she made the coffee. ‘Selfish being that I am! I never thought of either of them till just now: they will have heard all the tumult, Fieldhead and the cottage are so near, and Hortense is timid in such matters: so, no doubt, is Mrs. Pryor.’

‘Take my word for it, Lina, Moore will have contrived to get his sister out of the way: she went home with Miss Mann: he will have quartered her there for the night. As to Mrs. Pryor, I own I am uneasy about her; but in another half hour we will be with her.’

By this time the news of what had happened at the Hollow was spread all over the neighbourhood. Fanny, who had been to Fieldhead to fetch the milk, returned in panting haste, with tidings that there had been a battle in the night at Mr. Moore’s mill, and that some said twenty men were killed. Eliza, during Fanny’s absence, had been apprised by the butcher’s boy that the mill was burnt to the ground. Both women rushed into the parlour to announce these terrible facts to the ladies, terminating their clear and accurate narrative by the assertion that they were sure master must have been in it all. He and Thomas, the clerk, they were confident, must have gone last night to join Mr. Moore and the soldiers; Mr. Malone, too, had not been heard of at his lodgings since yesterday afternoon; and Joe Scott’s wife and family were in the greatest distress, wondering what had become of their head.

Scarcely was this information imparted when a knock at the kitchen-door announced the Fieldhead errandboy, arrived in hot haste, bearing a billet from Mrs. Pryor. It was hurriedly written, and urged Miss Keeldar to return directly, as the neighbourhood and the house seemed likely to be all in confusion, and orders would have to be given which the mistress of the hall alone could regulate. In a postscript it was entreated that Miss Helstone might not be left alone at the Rectory; she had better, it was suggested, accompany Miss Keeldar.