“What a pretty book!”

“Pretty, madam! it’s beautiful!  Pretty, indeed!”

“Oh yes!  I meant beautiful” said she, fluttered at his disapproval of her word.  “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr Johnson’s my sister used to read—­I forget the name of it; what was it, my dear?” turning to me.

“Which do you mean, ma’am?  What was it about?”

“I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what the name of it was; but it was written by Dr Johnson, and was very beautiful, and very like what Mr Holbrook has just been reading.”

“I don’t remember it,” said he reflectively.  “But I don’t know Dr Johnson’s poems well.  I must read them.”

As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr Holbrook say he should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got home; and this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matty at the time he said it; but after we had lost sight of the old house among the trees her sentiments towards the master of it were gradually absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha had broken her word, and seized on the opportunity of her mistress’s absence to have a “follower.”  Martha looked good, and steady, and composed enough, as she came to help us out; she was always careful of Miss Matty, and to-night she made use of this unlucky speech —

“Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out in an evening in such a thin shawl!  It’s no better than muslin.  At your age, ma’am, you should be careful.”

“My age!” said Miss Matty, almost speaking crossly, for her, for she was usually gentle—­“My age!  Why, how old do you think I am, that you talk about my age?”

“Well, ma’am, I should say you were not far short of sixty:  but folks’ looks is often against them—­and I’m sure I meant no harm.”

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matty, with grave emphasis; for probably the remembrance of her youth had come very vividly before her this day, and she was annoyed at finding that golden time so far away in the past.

But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holbrook.  She had probably met with so little sympathy in her early love, that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it was only by a sort of watching, which I could hardly avoid since Miss Pole’s confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart had been in its sorrow and its silence.

She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day, and sat near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to see, without being seen, down into the street.

He came.  He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far apart, as he sat with his head bent down, whistling, after we had replied to his inquiries about our safe return.  Suddenly he jumped up —

“Well, madam! have you any commands for Paris?  I am going there in a week or two.”

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed.