I know not whether my native air did me good, or whether, had I even
remained in the Grove, a crisis in my health would have taken place, but
I know that to Kate's great joy I grew so strong and well, that she
declared the change all but miraculous. I felt an altered being. My love
of silence and repose vanished; I now rejoiced in motion and out-door
exercise with all the unquiet delight of youth, and thirsted, with ever
new longing, for air and liberty.
Scarce passed a day but I went down the path that led from our garden to
the sands, and I wandered away along the rock-bound coast. This part of
the country was both safe and retired; few met or noticed me in my
solitary haunts, and I feared harm from none. It was often dusk when I
returned to the white cottage, whose light burned like a solitary star on
the heights above. I loved these lonely wanderings. I loved that barrier
of steep and fantastic rock which ran along the coast, and fenced it in
from the outer world; that long line of winding shore, fading in faint
mists, until it rested, like a low cloud, on the distant horizon; that
sea, whose waves broke at my feet, and yet seemed to extend beyond the
power of mortal ken to follow, whilst the hollow sky, bent down from
above and enclosing all, gave a sense of limit in the very midst of
infinite.
Leigh does not by any means belong to the most romantic and picturesque
part of the western coast; but on whatever shore the sea-waves break,
there always is a great and dreary beauty. To sit on a lonely rock, to
watch the fishing boats as they slowly sailed along the coast, or the
ships on their distant track, to feel the solemn vastness of all around
me, to note the rapid and almost infinite changes of light ever passing
over rock, sea, and sky, to listen to the sounds which varied from the
loudest roar of the swelling tide breaking at my feet, down to its lowest
receding murmur, but that never ceased to echo, rise, and die away
amongst those lonely cliffs, was to me a delight beyond all else.
There were pleasant walks about Leigh, but I soon wearied of them, and
ever returned to my barren and much-loved coast. There I learned to know
the sea under all her aspects. I saw her in sunshine, spreading
peacefully beneath cloudless heavens, like them, an image of serenity and
repose, and idly speeding on the light crafts that pursued their way with
indolent and careless grace. I saw her in storm, darkness brooding over
her heaving waters, her vast, white-crested billows rearing like angry
serpents against the lowering sky, her hovering flocks of pale sea-birds
rising and sinking to every motion of the waves like evil spirits
rejoicing in the tempest, whilst some bold ship, with mainmast broken,
with torn sails fluttering like banners on a battle day, sped past amidst
the turmoil of wind and wave, riding the waters with a triumphant power
that banished fear, and made you feel she would yet reach the port, and
weather many another storm. I also found in the ocean other aspects less
definite, but to me not less impressive,--the desolate and the bleak,
when the wide waters of a dull green hue rolled sluggishly along or
heavily beat the sandy beach, whilst fleecy clouds slowly passed over a
misty sky where grey melted into paler grey, giving that sense of vague
and melancholy infinite which can only be felt on the wild northern
shores.
I delighted in this wild and lonely life, and seldom felt the utter
solitude of my daily haunts. Sometimes indeed, when I chanced to meet in
the sand the mark of my own footprints, which no other steps had crossed
since I had passed there, which the wind alone would efface or the tide
wash away, a sense of sudden sadness came over me. It seemed as if a
friend, whom I never could meet or overtake, had made and left that track
for me to see. I felt vaguely that she who had passed there was not quite
the same who passed now. Only a few days perhaps had gone by: but of
those few days, unseen and unfelt as they speed on, is made up not only
the sum, but also the ceaseless change of this our earthly life.
Dearly as I have loved solitude, I hold it no unmixed good. Woe to the
communion with nature that is only a brooding over self, and not a
mingling of the soul with the Almighty Creator of all we behold; that
seeks in her loveliness none save the images of voluptuous indulgence,
and leaves by unread her purer teaching! Rightly even in innocent things
have we been warned to guard our senses and our hearts. For this I hold
ye dangerous, ye sheltered valleys, with quiet rivers gliding through,
with green woods and lovely paths leading we know not where, with
peaceful dwellings embosomed in the shade, and looking like so many
abodes of love and happiness. What though we know that the golden age was
all a fable and pastoral bliss the dream of poets, that innocence and
peace dwell not here, though here passion and satiety can penetrate as
surely as in the crowded city? Yet who, on beholding you, has not for a
moment wished to live and die on your quiet bosom? Who has not felt that
the thoughts you waken melt and subdue the heart, and haunt it vaguely
for many a day, and enervate it with longing dreams and desires that
savour too much of earth.
Not these the feelings which thou awakenest, thou austere sea,--austere
in thy very beauty, in thy calmest and most unruffled moods. More true
and honest are thy promises, which thou at least keepest faithfully,--the
long, arduous strife against wind and storm, the tardy return of
weatherbeaten mariners,--ay, and often too the wreck,--the wreck which
may appal the weak, but never yet dismayed a brave heart;--these are the
hopes thou holdest forth--these the promises which life, whom thou
imagest, will fulfil, until her waves, calm or troubled, rough or smooth,
lead us into that mysterious sea which man has named Eternity.
Our home existence was as quiet and secluded as my outward life. On
settling at Leigh, Miss O'Reilly had come to a resolve which she thus
imparted to me one evening:--"Daisy, you were too young when you left
Leigh to know that because it is a small place it must have the
inconvenience of all small places, in which life is a round of back-
biting, quarrelling, envying, scandal, and gossip. Now we can't help
being backbitten or talked about, but we can help doing it to others: the
way, child, is to keep to ourselves and to see no one. We shall be hated,
as a matter of course; thought proud, or still worse in England, poor.
Never mind, child, those are not the things one cannot endure."
"Papa was thought proud," I said.
"And so he was, child; he had a mind above the paltriness of such a place
as this,--of course he had: he never would have been a popular man
anywhere, never. Well, as I was saying, child, we must bear with being
thought proud and poor, for we shall make no acquaintances. A decent,
civil intercourse we must certainly keep up with Miss Murray--she won't
trouble us much, poor thing!--but beyond this we do not go. Now, you must
not misunderstand me. I do not mean to keep you locked up, and if you can
get acquainted with pleasant young people, I do not object. There is a
dancing academy, it seems, and since your father wished you to learn how
to dance, you must learn it, of course. If you meet there sensible girls
whom you would like to see, see them here in liberty; but as to visiting
their mammas, or being visited by them, I decline the honour."
Thus it was settled. We lived in our retired way; we were thought proud
and poor; we saw Miss Murray every now and then in her own house, for to
come near us was an exertion not to be thought of; I went to the academy,
and learned how to dance, but I found all the young ladies so little to
my taste, that with not one of them did I form an intimate acquaintance,
and two years passed away in this quiet, monotonous life, varied by the
letters of Cornelius.
Only a few were addressed to "his dear adopted child," but they were so
kind, they breathed an affection so true, an interest so heartfelt, that
to this day, and spite of all that has passed since then, I cannot look
over them without emotion. In all his letters, Cornelius spoke of course
of his art and his prospects. He was enchanted with Rome, and ardent with
hope; but he did not think it worth while to send home anything before
his return. He thought he might just as well wait until he was coming
back, and take the public by storm. Miss O'Reilly thought so too, and we
accordingly expected her brother in the spring of the second year
following his departure. A somewhat enigmatic letter, in which he
expressed his great wish of seeing us both again, confirmed this
impression.
"Depend upon it, Daisy," said Miss O'Reilly to me, "he means to take us,
like the public, by surprise."
The mere thought took away my breath.
"Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed, laying down my work, "if he were to enter the
room now, what should I do?"
"I am sure I don't know," replied Kate, looking up from her letter, "you
look wild enough for anything. Go and take a walk, child, and calm
yourself down with the fresh seabreeze. We are in March, I don't expect
him for a fortnight or three weeks yet. Go out, I say; he must find you
fresh and healthy."
"You don't think he will come whilst I am out, Kate?"
"Bless the child! no; I tell you not to expect him for three weeks."
I sighed; three weeks seemed an age, and, spite of her assurances, I had
a nervous apprehension that Cornelius would arrive precisely whilst I was
away; yet I yielded to her behest of going out. I wanted to see William
Murray, and tell him the happy tidings; so I just put on my bonnet and
cloak, and hastened down to the sands. It was a mild afternoon; the sky
was clear, earth was silent, the cliffs rose grey and lonely, the flat
beach was yet wet with the retreating tide that had left many a wide
shallow pool behind, the far sea lay calm and still, and over sky, earth,
cliffs, beach and sea, the setting sun shed a pale, golden glow. I walked
fast, looking out for William, whom I at length saw coming towards me.
And this reminds me I have neglected to mention how my acquaintance with
him was renewed, after so long an interruption.
We had not parted very good friends. He had called me "a sulky little
monkey," and if I had not retaliated, I had nevertheless internally
considered him a young bear then and ever since. When, shortly after our
return to Leigh, I met him at his aunt's house, William, who was nearly
two years my senior, was in all the charming roughness of his sex in the
teens. He had not yet got over being left to petticoat government, as he
termed the rule of his gentle aunt, and accordingly vented the
indignation of his injured manliness on her female friends. On seeing us
enter the room in which Miss Murray sat in her usual shady state, her
amiable nephew thrust his hands into his pockets, and began whistling
with all his might. Miss O'Reilly took no notice of this, but in the
course of conversation she quietly observed to Miss Murray--
"What a fine boy your nephew is, Ma'am?"
"Ah! if he were only a good boy!" sighed Miss Murray.
William was then turned seventeen; but he looked about fourteen; the
observation of Kate was therefore doubly insulting. I know not whether it
was to show his resentment, that at tea he shuffled and kicked his feet
under the table to such a degree, that his aunt, laying down her cup,
solemnly inquired, "If he intended to break her heart, as he was ruining
her furniture and endangering the shins of her guests?" To which delicate
question, the only reply William deigned to give was a scowl over his
tea-cup, and a sarcastic intimation at the close of the meal, that "tea
was the greatest slop and most womanish stuff _he_ had ever tasted."
"Milk and water is decidedly more wholesome for children," mischievously
said Kate.
William turned scarlet, stabbed her with a look, rose and left the room,
slamming the door after him. Miss Murray produced her handkerchief, and
looked pitiful.
"I appeal to you, Ma'am, is not mine a dreadful, a lamentable case! That
boy, Ma'am, is the misery of my life; twice he has run away, and has had
to be pursued and caught; each time offering the most desperate
resistance."
"He is but a boy," good-humouredly observed Kate, "he will grow out of
all this."
Miss Murray however, for a reason very different from that of Rachel,
would not be comforted, and lamented the length of the holidays. Kate
herself changed her opinion when she discovered on the following morning
the manner in which the shoes of William had used her light grey silk.
She called him a little wretch; and, in her indignation, wondered what
could tempt his aunt to have him pursued and brought back, when by
absconding he had offered her so easy a method of getting rid of him
altogether. I almost concurred in this opinion, and altogether looked
upon William as a sort of young Christian savage.
So far as I could see, the gracious youth did not trouble his aunt much
with his company. I seldom or ever went down to the sands without meeting
him with his dog 'Dash,' a shaggy-coated creature, as rough-looking as
his master, who went whistling past me with superb indifference. I had
met them thus one day, the youth climbing the cliffs, and the dog
bounding on before him, and now and then turning round to utter a short
joyous bark at his master, when, on returning homewards, I saw them again
under altered circumstances. William sat on a rock at the base of the
cliff, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and at his feet
Dash lay dead. He had fallen from above, and been killed at once; his
young master looked at him silently, and, as I approached, dashed away a
furtive tear. I stood, unwilling to go on without having expressed
sympathy or attempted consolation, and not knowing how to do either, I
knelt on the sands and, caressing the poor dead dog, I hesitatingly
observed--
"He was a very good dog, was he not?"
"There never was a better," replied William in a subdued voice.
"He seemed very clever."
"I could make him do anything. He'd dash in the roughest sea at a look,
and if I only said 'Dash!' he'd look into my face, prick his ears, and be
ready to fly off. Poor old Dash! he'll never do the bidding of his master
again."
And he stooped over him to hide his tears.
"Was he old?" I asked.
"Just turned five; the prime age, you know; at four they are too young,
and at six they are aging: five is the age for a dog. That was why he was
such a beauty; see what a coat he had, what a deep broad chest, and such
a back! I'll take a bet with any one, you can hear that dog's bark for
miles along the coast; that is to say, one could have heard it, for
Dash's barking is all ended and over now."
Thus poor William sat lamenting over his lost favourite, recording his
virtues and some of his many exploits, when I said--
"I suppose you will bury him in Miss Murray's garden?"
"No, that I shan't," he replied indignantly, "he shall be buried where he
fell, as they bury soldiers after battle."
So saying, he drew forth his knife, and began digging a deep and narrow
grave at the base of the sea-washed cliff; he lined it softly with his
handkerchief, saying as he did so--
"Won't Abby have a precious hunt for it?"
Then he took Dash, gave him a last caress, gently laid him in his grave,
covered him over with sand and earth, and marked the spot with a fragment
of rock, on which he carved the day of the month and year.
"Won't you put his name?" I asked.
"No. Dash answered and obeyed no one but me; his name is nothing to any
one else, and I don't want to know it."
We walked on. As a projecting rock was going to hide the spot from our
view, William turned round to give it one last glance, then he looked at
me wishfully, and said, "I had him from a pup, and I taught him all his
tricks."
From that day William and I were friends. We met to talk of Dash at
first, and afterwards of other things, for even the best of dogs must
expect to be forgotten. William generously forgave me my sex, and
confided to me his troubles. His aunt, it seems, kindly intended him as a
present to the Church, but William vowed no mortal power should induce
him to turn a parson, and boldly declared for the sea, in a midshipman's
berth, against which his aunt, whose ideas of nautical life were summed
up in grog and biscuit, entered a solemn protest.
As we very seldom visited Miss Murray, and as she never visited us, I
only saw William when I met him out, and that was often, for we loved the
same solitary haunts and wild scenes. In parting we told one another what
places we were to visit on the morrow, and William no more knew he had
asked me for a meeting, than I knew I had granted him one. We followed
the retreating tide to gather shells and sea-weeds, or ran hand in hand
along the sands, laughing, because the keen breeze took away our breath,
and the waves came dashing to our feet, covering us with spray. We
climbed together the steepest cliffs for the mere love of danger, and
risked our necks, ten times for one, by running down the same perilous
path. When we felt tired, we sat down on some rock to rest, and William,
drawing forth from his pocket 'The Dangers of the Deep,' made me low-
spirited with dismal stories of lost or shipwrecked mariners. Friendships
grow rapidly in youth, and by the close of William's holidays we were as
free and intimate as if we had been in familiar intercourse for years.
I had told Miss O'Reilly of Dash's death and burial, and was beginning to
state that William Murray was not quite so bad as he had appeared on our
first interview, when she interrupted me with--
"Nonsense, child, the boy may have liked his dog; but what about it?"
Later, when I imparted to her the grievances of my friend, she treated
them in the same careless, slighting way.
"Pooh! pooh!" she said, "does the little fellow think he knows his own
mind? A midshipman! why the first breeze would whip him off the deck.
He'll do a great deal better in the pulpit, so far as physical strength
goes, but what sort of a preacher he will make is more than I can tell."
I was too much mortified by her tone and manner to renew the subject; but
at the same time, and with the spirit of opposition of my years, I liked
William all the better for being rather persecuted. Indeed, the aversion
Kate had taken to my friend proved somewhat unfortunate, for, without
intending any mystery, I forbore to mention his name to her; consequently
she knew little or nothing of an intimacy which I have reason to believe
she would have opposed from many motives, and to which her opposition
would in the beginning have been a sufficient bar.
In spite of the ridicule with which Miss O'Reilly treated his pretensions
to the sea, William Murray conquered his aunt's opposition, and, in the
course of the ensuing spring, went forth on his first voyage. He remained
a year away, and came back about a week before we received the letter
which led us to expect the return of Cornelius. Our joy on seeing one
another again was great; absence had not cooled our friendship; not a day
passed but we met on the sands, and took long walks down the coast. I
thought nothing of this until Miss O'Reilly said to me--
"William Murray is come back."
"Yes, I know," I replied, feeling that I turned crimson.
"And how do you know?" she asked, giving me an attentive look.
"I met him on the sands."
She did not ask me why I had not mentioned it to her sooner, but said
quietly--
"That boy has grown very much."
The word "boy" relieved me greatly. Since William was only a boy, there
could be no sort of harm or indiscretion in being so much with him, nor
was there either any absolute necessity to mention the matter to Miss
O'Reilly. So when, to quiet my anticipations, she sent me out for a walk,
I did not inform her that one of my motives for complying with her
request was to impart the tidings to William Murray. As I saw him
advancing towards me, I eagerly ran to meet him.
"Oh, William," I cried joyfully, "I am so glad, so happy."
"Then Mr. O'Reilly is come back?" he said, stopping short to look at me.
"No; but he is coming soon, quite soon. Is it not delightful?"
"Indeed it is," he replied cordially; "tell me all about it, Daisy."
We sat down on a ledge of rock facing the sea, and I told him all there
was to tell. He heard me with a pleased smile on his kind, handsome face,
which he kept turned towards mine, as he sat there in a listening
attitude. William was then between eighteen and nineteen. He was slight
in figure, but above the middle height, and of a spirited bearing. His
complexion, once too fair, had become embrowned by constant exposure, and
spite of his light hair and blue eyes he looked sufficiently manly; his
midshipman's attire became him well, and the consciousness of having
entered active life had freed his manner from much of its ungracious
roughness. Of these changes I was conscious, but other change I saw not:
William was to me what he had been since we had become friends--frank,
ingenuous, and boyish in his kindness. I had often spoken to him of
Cornelius, and I now closed my brief recital with the remark--
"Oh, William! I am so happy that I scarcely know what to do with myself."
He looked at me silently, began tracing figures in the sand with a
slender wand which he held, then suddenly looked up again, and said, very
earnestly--
"He is quite like a father to you, Daisy."
"More than a father," I replied, ardently, "for a father is bound to do
for his child what, of his own free-will, Cornelius did for me. And then
so kind! always giving me new playthings, or books, or things I liked."
"And you were quite like a daughter to him."
"I was, and am. Look, here is his last letter, beginning with 'my dear
child,' and signed, 'your old friend, Cornelius;' but I have another at
home, in which he actually calls me 'his dear, adopted daughter.' I am
quite proud of it, for he is to be very celebrated, you know, and it is a
great honour."
William again traced figures in the sand, but he did not speak.
"Well," I said, bending down to look at him, "what are you thinking of?"
"That I should like you to be proud of being my friend," he replied, with
an earnest look.
"I am proud of it, so you have your wish."
"Yes, but I should like you to have cause, and also, Daisy, I should like
to do something to please you. I wish I could."
"And so do I," 1 answered, laughing, "for you would bring him back at
once."
"Indeed I would: in the first place, because your heart is set upon it;
in the second, because I very much wish to know Mr. O'Reilly. I like him
for your sake, and all he has done for you; and then, from what you tell
me, I am sure he is a thoroughly good man."
I could not help laying my hand on the arm of William, and replying
earnestly--
"Indeed, William, he is a good man, and when you see and know him, you
will find that you were not mistaken, though good is not, I dare say, the
word most people would apply to Cornelius O'Reilly."
William took this as a compliment to his penetration, and was rather
gratified. The sun had set, grey evening was closing in; we rose, and
walking together along the silent beach, we talked of Cornelius, and laid
down plans of pleasant excursions up the coast, and far down the inland
valleys, to be undertaken after his return. But, to our mutual
mortification, William's leave of absence expired, nay the Academy
opened, and Cornelius came not back to take us and the public by
surprise. In her indignation, Miss O'Reilly declared that there could be
but one interpretation given to such extraordinary conduct--"Cornelius
has got entangled."
"How so, Kate?" I asked.
"Why, he is either married or going to be married to some Italian lady;
that is it."
"Do you think so?" I asked quietly.
"Bless the child, how coolly she takes it!" exclaimed Kate, half angrily.
"I have no right to take it otherwise, Kate; besides, provided Cornelius
comes back to us, what matter?"
"What matter! suppose he has been married all this time, and has a family
about him!"
"I don't think Cornelius would marry as if he were ashamed of himself," I
replied, rather indignantly; "then how can he have a family in two years?
and even if he had--"
"Nonsense, child!" interrupted Kate, impatiently, "I don't speak of it as
a fact, and there you go, coolly dissecting every hasty word I utter, as
if I were giving evidence before judge and jury!"
"Well, Kate, all I mean to say is this--if Cornelius has a wife and
children, where is the harm, provided he does not settle in Italy?"
Miss O'Reilly was of a very different opinion, and, as she seemed
inclined to be vexed with me for disagreeing with her, I dropped the
subject and proposed a walk. She shortly replied that with an Italian
sister-in-law in prospect she did not feel disposed for walking; but
that, as the matter did not touch me, I was quite right in not taking it
to heart. I did not answer; I did not wish to add to her annoyance by
letting her see how bitter was my disappointment at the prolonged absence
of Cornelius, and the voluntary obscurity under which he lingered.
The thought kept me awake in bed beyond my usual hour; but at length I
slept. I awoke with a sudden start, I myself knew not why; I thought I
had heard something in my sleep, what I could not tell. I sat up and
listened; yes, there was a sound of voices below in the parlour. I rose
and opened my door softly. One of the voices was that of Kate: the
other--unheard for two years, but not forgotten?-was that so well known
and so dear, of her brother. I did not give myself time for joy; I
dressed hurriedly and slipped down. The parlour door stood ajar; I looked
in; he sat by Kate, bending over her and embracing her with a fondness
which, as I felt, a little jealously, she had not called me down to
share. He sat with his back turned to me, and saw me not; the floor was
carpeted, my step was always light; I stood by his side ere he was
conscious of my presence. I wished to speak, but the words died unuttered
on my lips; I remained standing there, mute, motionless, and trembling
from head to foot.
"Daisy!" he exclaimed, starting up. His arms were around me--I was
gathered to his heart.
"Well!" he said, "what is the matter with you? You do not even give me a
kiss. Have I grown strange?"
I did not answer; a singular feeling was coming over me; a mist fell on
my eyes; the room seemed, with all it contained, to swim before my sight,
then suddenly vanished in utter darkness. I had fainted for the first
time in my life.
When I recovered I was lying on the sofa. Cornelius was bending over me,
and helping his sister, armed with a formidable bottle, to rub my face
and hands with vinegar.
"I am so glad," I cried, starting up.
"Why, there, she is all alive again!" exclaimed Miss O'Reilly.
"I am so glad," I continued, joyfully, "I thought I had dreamt it."
I sat up, and twining my arms around the neck of Cornelius, I kissed him,
whilst my tears flowed fast. He sat down by me, and anxiously asked how I
felt.
"Why, very well," I replied, laughing, in the gladness of my heart.
"Ay, ay," said Kate, smiling, "we may cork up the bottle, and lock it up,
may we not, Daisy?"
"Are you sure you are quite well?" urged Cornelius; "you fainted, you
know."
"Did I?" I had scarcely heeded the remark. Seated by him, with my arm
locked in his, his hand clasping mine, I looked at him eagerly,
delighting every sense with the consciousness of his dear presence. He
asked me if the room did not feel too close, if I did not want air, and I
could give him no answer, so charmed was I to listen to his voice again.
"Let her alone," said Kate, gaily; "she is well enough now; she fainted
because she was glad to see you, and she got well at once for the same
reason precisely. All she wants is to look at your face."
He turned it towards me; it was as kind and handsome as ever, not in the
least altered. I could not take my eyes from it, and in the overflowing
joy of my heart I exclaimed--
"Oh, Kate! Kate! I shall be too happy now, shall I not?"
"You see the poor child is as mad as ever," said Kate.
"I hope she has been a good girl in my absence," he observed, rather
gravely.
"Of course she has."
"Learnt her lessons well?"
"Bless the boy!" exclaimed Kate, "does he think she is still a little
girl? Don't you find her altered?"
"Oh yes, she has grown."
"Grown! grown!" impatiently said his sister, "of course she has! do you
not think she has improved?"
"She seems much stronger."
Miss O'Reilly looked disappointed. Cornelius questioned me concerning my
studies; I answered to his satisfaction; he stroked my hair and called me
a good child.
"It is very odd you will persist in calling Daisy a child," drily said
Miss O'Reilly.
"Well, am I not his child?" I asked.
"Nonsense!" she replied, looking provoked.
"Indeed, I am his adopted daughter," I said eagerly.
"I never yet heard that a man of twenty-six or so had a daughter near
seventeen," was her ironical reply.
Cornelius smiled; but I warmly vindicated our relationship.
"I am very glad he is so young," I observed. "Most girls have old
fathers; mine is not old; he will live the longer."
Cornelius laughed; his sister said "Pish!" and Jane, by bringing in the
supper-tray, closed the conversation. Indeed our discourse was of the
most desultory kind. Although Cornelius protested that he was not in the
least fatigued, having rested in London before coming to us, Kate would
not hear of our sitting up. She made me leave him just as I was beginning
to talk to him of his painting. To comfort me she confidently informed me
as we went upstairs, that a large wooden case in the back parlour
contained his pictures; to this intelligence she added, with a
significant look--
"He has not got entangled after all."