''Il Penseroso,' for instance.'
'This is a very different thing.'
'That it certainly is,' said Gillian, beginning to read-
'How lovely mounts the evening star
Climbing the sunset skies afar.'
'What a wonderful evening! Why, the evening star was going up backward!'
'You only want to make nonsense of it.'
'It is not I that make nonsense!' said Gillian, 'why, don't you see, Dolly, which way the sun and everything moves?'
'This is the evening star,' said Dolores, sulkily. 'It was just rising.'
'I do believe you think it rises in the west.'
'You always see it there. You showed it to me only last Sunday.'
'Do you think it had just risen?'
'Of course the stars rise when the sun sets.'
Gillian could hardly move for laughing. 'My dear Dolores, you to be daughter to a scientific man! Don't you know that the stars are in the sky, going on all the time, only we can't see them till the sunlight is gone?'
But Dolores was too much offended to attend, and only grunted. She wanted to get the cutting away from Gillian, but there was no doing so.
'The mist is rising o'er the mead,
With silver hiding grass and reed;
'Tis silent all, on hill and heath,
The evening winds, they hardly breathe;
What sudden breaks the silent charm,
The echo wakes with wild alarm.
With rapid, loud, and furious rattle,
Sure 'tis the voice of deadly battle,
Bidding the rustic swain to fly
Before his country's enemy.'
'Did anybody ever hear of a sham fight in the evening?' cried the soldier's daughter indignantly. 'There, I can't see any more of it.'
'Give it to me, then.'
'You are welcome! Where did it come from? Let me look. C.H. Oh, did Constance Hacket write it? Nobody else could be so delicious, or so far superior to Milton.'
'You knew it all the time, and that was the reason you made game of it.'
'No, indeed it was not, Dolores. I did not guess. You should have told me at first.'
'You would have gone on about it all the same.'
'No, indeed, I hope not. I did not mean to vex you; but how was I to know it was so near your heart?'
'I ought to have known better than to have shown it to you! You are always laughing at her and me all over the house-and now-'
'Come, Dolly. I never meant to hurt your feelings. I will promise not to tell the others about it.'
No answer. There was something hard and swelling in Dolores's throat.
'Won't that do?' said Gillian. 'You know I can't say that I admire it, but I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'll take care the others don't tease you about it.'
Dolores made hardly any answer, but it was a sort of pacification, and Gillian said not a word to the younger ones. Still she thought it no breach of her promise, when they were all gone to bed, and she the sole survivor, to tell her mother how inadvertently she had affronted Dolores by cutting up the verses, before she knew whose they were.
'I am sorry,' said Lady Merrifield. 'Anything that tends to keep Dolores aloof from us is a pity.'
'But, mama, I had no notion whose they were.'
'You saw that she was pleased with them.'
'Yes, but that was the more ridiculous. Fancy the evening star climbing up-up-you know in the sunset!'
'Portentous, certainly! Yet still I wish you could have found it in your heart to take advantage of any feeler towards sympathy.'
'How could I pretend to admire such stuff?'
'You need not pretend; but there are two ways of taking hold of a thing without being untrue. If you had been a little wiser and more forbearing you need not have given Dolores such a shock as would drive her in upon herself. Depend upon it, the older you grow, the more dangerous you will find it to begin by hitting the blots.'
Gillian looked on in some curiosity when the next day good Miss Hacket, enchanted with her dear Connie's success, trotted up to display the lines to Lady Merrifield, who on her side felt bound to set an example alike of tenderness and sincerity, and was glad to be able to observe, 'The lines run very smoothly. This must be a great pleasure to her.'
'Indeed it is! Connie is so clever. I always say I can't think where she got it from; but we always tried to give her very advantage, and she was quite a favourite pupil at Miss Dormer's. Is not it a sweet idea, the stillness of the evening broken by the sounds of battle, and then it proving to be only our brave defenders?'
'Yes,' was the answer. 'I have often thought of that, and of what it might be to hear those volleys of musketry in earnest. It has made me very thankful.'
So Miss Hacket went away gratified, and Gillian owned that it would have been useless to wound the good lady's feelings by criticism, though her mother made her understand that if her opinion had been asked, or Connie herself had shown the verses, it would have been desirable to point out the faults, in a kindly spirit. The wonder was, how they could have found their way into the paper, and they were followed by more with the like signature.
Indeed, the great sensational tale, 'The Waif of the Moorland,' was being copied out of the books where it had been first written. Dolores had sounded Mr. Flinders on the subject, and he had replied that he could ensure its consideration by a publisher, but that her fair friend must be aware that an untried author must be prepared for some risk.
Constance could hardly abstain from communicating her hopes to her sister; but Mr. Leadbitter-to whom the poetry was duly shown-had given such a character of the Darminster Politician that Miss Hacket besought Constance to have no more to do with it. Besides, she was so entirely a lady, and so conscientious, that all her tender blindness would not have prevented her from being shocked at encouraging, or profiting by, a surreptitious correspondence.
Constance declared that Mr. Leadbitter's objection to the paper was merely political, and her sister was too willing that she should be gratified to protest any further. The copying had to be done in secret, since it was impossible to confess the hopes founded on Mr. Flinders, and it therefore lasted several weeks, each fresh portion being communicated to Dolores on Sunday afternoons. There were at first a few scruples on Constance's part whether this were exactly a Sunday occupation; but Dolores pronounced that 'the Sabbatarian system was gone out,' and after Constance had introduced the ghostly double of her vanished waif walking in a surpliced procession, she persuaded herself that there was a sufficient aroma of religion about the story to bring it within the pale of Sunday books.
The days were shortening so that Lady Merrifield had doubts as to the fitness of letting the girls return in the dark, but Gillian would have been grieved to relinquish her class, and the matter was adjusted by the two remaining till evensong, when there was sure to be sufficient escort for them to come home with.
Therewith arrived the holidays and Jasper, whose age came between those of Gillian and Mysie. Dolores had looked forward to his coming, for, by all the laws of fiction, he was bound to be the champion of the orphan niece, and finally to develop into her lover and hero. In 'No Home,' when Clare's aunt locked her up and fed her on bread and water for playing the piano better than her spiteful cousin Augusta, Eric, the boy of the family, had solaced her with cold pie and ice-creams drawn up in a basket by a cord from the window. He had likewise forced from his cruel mother the locket which proved Clare's identity with the mourning countess's golden-haired grandchild and heiress, and he had finally been rewarded with her hand, becoming in some mysterious manner Lord Eric.
Jasper, however, or Japs, as his family preferred to call him, proved to be a big, shy boy, not at all delighted
