By no means. Shirley is all right. If her wistful cast of physiognomy is not gone, no more is her careless smile. She keeps her dark old manor-house light and bright with her cheery presence: the gallery and the low-ceiled chambers that open into it have learned lively echoes from her voice: the dim entrance- hall with its one window has grown pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk dress, as its wearer sweeps across from room to room, now carrying flowers to the barbarous peach-bloom salon, now entering the dining-room to open its casements and let in the scent of mignonette and sweet-briar, anon bringing plants from the staircase window to place in the sun at the open porch-door.

She takes her sewing occasionally, but, by some fatality, she is doomed never to sit steadily at it for above five minutes at a time; her thimble is scarcely fitted on, her needle scarce threaded, when a sudden thought calls her upstairs; perhaps she goes to seek some just-then-remembered old ivory-backed needle- book, or older china-topped workbox, quite unneeded, but which seems at the moment indispensable; perhaps to arrange her hair, or a drawer which she recollects to have seen that morning in a state of curious confusion; perhaps only to take a peep from a particular window at a particular view, whence Briarfield Church and Rectory are visible, pleasantly bowered in trees. She has scarcely returned, and again taken up the slip of cambric, or square of half-wrought canvas, when Tartar’s bold scrape and strangled whistle are heard at the porch-door, and she must run to open it for him; it is a hot day; he comes in panting; she must convoy him to the kitchen, and see with her own eyes that his water-bowl is replenished. Through the open kitchen-door the court is visible, all sunny and gay, and, peopled with turkeys and their poults, peahens and the chicks, pearl-flecked Guinea-fowls, and a bright variety of pure white, and purple-necked and blue and cinnamon-plumed pigeons. Irresistible spectacle to Shirley! She runs to the pantry for a roll, and she stands on the doorstep scattering crumbs; around her throng her eager, plump, happy feathered vassals. John is about the stables, and John must be talked to, and her mare looked at. She is still petting and patting it, when the cows come in to be milked: this is important; Shirley must stay and take a review of them all. There are perhaps some little calves, some little new-yeaned lambs—it may be twins—whose mothers have rejected them; Miss Keeldar must be introduced to them by John—must permit herself the treat of feeding them with her own hand, under the direction of her careful foreman. Meantime, John moots doubtful questions about the farming of certain ‘crofts,’ and ‘ings,’ and ‘holms,’ and his mistress is necessitated to fetch her garden-hat—a gipsy-straw—and accompany him, over stile and along hedgerow, to hear the conclusion of the whole agricultural matter on the spot, and with the said ‘crofts,’ ‘ings,’ and ‘holms,’ under her eye. Bright afternoon thus wears into soft evening, and she comes home to a late tea, and after tea she never sews.

After tea Shirley reads, and she is just about as tenacious of her book as she is lax of her needle. Her study is the rug, her seat a footstool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs. Pryor’s feet—there she always learned her lessons when a child, and old habits have a strong power over her. The tawny and lion-like bulk of Tartar is ever stretched beside her; his negro muzzle laid on his fore-paws, straight, strong, and shapely as the limbs of an Alpine wolf. One hand of the mistress generally reposes on the loving serf’s rude head, because if she takes it away he groans and is discontented. Shirley’s mind is given to her book; she lifts not her eyes; she neither stirs nor speaks, unless, indeed, it be to return a brief respectful answer to Mrs. Pryor, who addresses deprecatory phrases to her now and then.

‘My dear, you had better not have that great dog so near you; he is crushing the border of your dress.’

‘Oh, it is only muslin; I can put a clean one on to-morrow.’

‘My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting to a table when you read.’

‘I will try, ma’am, some time; but it is so comfortable to do as one has always been accustomed to do.’

‘My dear, let me beg of you to put that book down; you are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight.’

‘No, ma’am, not at all; my eyes are never tired.’