In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. ‘Louis,’ she said, ‘would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern: the incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the premier.’

It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials; but Fortune had destined her another part.

She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing shower: she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone—a monkish relic—once, perhaps, the base of a cross; she mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering-pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops: she gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a solitary thorn, at the head of a solitary lane far off: she surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling; the summer evening was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright; above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point—the Star of Love.

Caroline was not unhappy that evening, far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had drawn near. She received the touch unstartled.

‘I am looking at Venus, mamma. See! she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!’

The answer was a closer caress, and Caroline turned and looked, not into Mrs. Pryor’s matron face, but up at a dark, manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot, and stepped down from the pedestal.

‘I have been sitting with “mamma” an hour,’ said the intruder. ‘I have had a long conversation with her. Where, meantime, have you been?’

‘To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Robert. She will neither say “yes” not “no” to any question put. She sits alone—I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant. If you rouse her, or scold her, she gives you a look half-wistful, half-reckless, which sends you away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her I cannot tell. For my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake her.’

‘Never mind them—they were cut out for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these freaks. He will manage her, if anyone can. She tries him, however. He has had a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are those bells ringing?’

‘For the repeal of your terrible law—the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?’

‘Yesterday evening, at this time, I was packing some books for a sea voyage. They were the only possessions, except some clothes, seeds, roots and tools, which I felt free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you.’

‘To leave me? To leave me ?’

Her little fingers fastened on his arm. She spoke and looked affrighted.

‘Not now—not now. Examine my face—yes, look at me well: is the despair of parting legible thereon?’

She looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk. This face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope, fondness, delight.