"You should have waited for my leave to descend," she said. "You

still look very pale--and so thin! Poor child!--poor girl!"

Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She

possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face

seemed to me fill of charm. Mary's countenance was equally

intelligent--her features equally pretty; but her expression was

more reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana

looked and spoke with a certain authority: she had a will,

evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an

authority supported like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and

self-respect permitted, to an active will.

"And what business have you here?" she continued. "It is not your

place. Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we

like to be free, even to license--but you are a visitor, and must go

into the parlour."

"I am very well here."

"Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with

flour."

"Besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposed Mary.

"To be sure," added her sister. "Come, you must be obedient." And

still holding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner

room.

"Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, "while we take our

things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we

exercise in our little moorland home--to prepare our own meals when

we are so inclined, or when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or

ironing."

She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat

opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first, the

parlour, and then its occupant.

The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet

comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were

very bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A

few strange, antique portraits of the men and women of other days

decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained

some books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous

ornament in the room--not one modern piece of furniture, save a

brace of workboxes and a lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on a

side-table: everything--including the carpet and curtains--looked

at once well worn and well saved.

Mr. St. John--sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the

walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips

mutely sealed--was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue

instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was young--

perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty--tall, slender; his face riveted

the eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a

straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is

seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as

did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of

my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and

blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was

partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.




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