ation of her father's
writings. She had known that he was miserably yoked, and had respected
him when he seemed inclined for compassion without wooing her for
tenderness. He had not trifled with her, hardly flattered; he had done no
more than kindle a young girl's imaginative liking. The pale flower of
imagination, fed by dews, not by sunshine, was born drooping, and hung
secret in her bosom, shy as a bell of the frail wood-sorrel. Yet there
was pain for her in the perishing of a thing so poor and lowly. She had
not observed the change in Lydiard after Beauchamp came on the scene: and
that may tell us how passionlessly pure the little maidenly sentiment
was. For do but look on the dewy wood-sorrel flower; it is not violet or
rose inviting hands to pluck it: still it is there, happy in the woods.
And Jenny's feeling was that a foot had crushed it.

She wept, thinking confusedly of Lord Romfrey; trying to think he had
made his amends tardily, and that Beauchamp prized him too highly for the
act. She had no longer anything to resent: she was obliged to weep. In
truth, as the earl had noticed, she was physically depressed by the
strain of her protracted watch over Beauchamp, as well as rather
heartsick.

But she had been of aid and use in saving him! She was not quite a
valueless person; sweet, too, was the thought that he consulted her,
listened to her, weighed her ideas. He had evidently taken to study her,
as if dispersing some wonderment that one of her sex should have ideas.
He had repeated certain of her own which had been forgotten by her. His
eyes were often on her with this that she thought humorous intentness.
She smiled. She had assisted in raising him from his bed of sickness,
whereof the memory affrighted her and melted her. The difficulty now was
to keep him indoors, and why he would not go even temporarily to a large
house like Mount Laurels, whither Colonel Halkett was daily requesting
him to go, she was unable to comprehend. His love of Dr. Shrapnel might
account for it.

'Own, Jenny,' said Beauchamp, springing up to meet her as she entered the
room where he and Dr. Shrapnel sat discussing Lord Romfrey's bearing at
his visit, 'own that my uncle Everard is a true nobleman. He has to make
the round to the right mark, but he comes to it. I could not move
him--and I like him the better for that. He worked round to it himself. I
ought to have been sure he would. You're right: I break my head with
impatience.'