went into a house but t’ childer wor about him directly: them little things wor like as if they’d a keener sense nor grown-up folks i’ finding out folk’s natures.’

Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone’s, as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.

‘But he is so grave,’ objected Caroline.

‘Grave! The finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine.’

‘At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being misanthropical.’

‘Oh, I fancy he is rather out of place there—in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him; they think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis’s way.’

‘I don’t think Miss Keeldar likes him.’

‘She doesn’t know him—she doesn’t know him; otherwise, she has sense enough to do justice to his merits.’

‘Well, I suppose she doesn’t know him,’ mused Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long; she was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice.

One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance. His lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation; he began to ransack his tutor’s desk for a piece of wax, or twine, necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search; he rummaged compartment after compartment, and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon, not a ball of cord or a lump of bees’-wax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them.

‘What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!’ he said. ‘I hope he won’t keep my old exercises so carefully.’

‘What is it?’

‘Old copy-books.’

He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally, her curiosity was excited to see its contents.

‘If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?’

‘Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore’s desk is half mine—for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it—and I give you leave.’

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar, but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was recognisable; she scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her—‘Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove,—shire’ (a southern county), and a date four years back.