lladyce's book Thyme sat opposite in a bright
blue frock, and turned the pages of Darwin's work on earthworms.

Regarding her "little daughter," who was so much more solid than herself,
Cecilia's face wore a very sweet, faintly surprised expression.

'My kitten is a bonny thing,' it seemed to say. 'It is queer that I
should have a thing so large.'

Outside in the Square Gardens a shower, the sunlight, and blossoms, were
entangled. It was the time of year when all the world had kittens; young
things were everywhere--soft, sweet, uncouth. Cecilia felt this in her
heart. It brought depth into her bright, quick eyes. What a secret
satisfaction it was that she had once so far committed herself as to have
borne a child! What a queer vague feeling she sometimes experienced in
the Spring--almost amounting to a desire to bear another! So one may
mark the warm eye of a staid mare, following with her gaze the first
strayings of her foal. 'I must get used to it,' she seems to say. 'I
certainly do miss the little creature, though I used to threaten her with
my hoofs, to show I couldn't be bullied by anything of that age. And
there she goes! Ah, well!'

Remembering suddenly, however, that she was sitting there to clear off
Mr. Balladyce, because it was so necessary to keep up with what he wrote,
Cecilia dropped her gaze to the page before her; and instantly, by
uncomfortable chance, not the choice pastures of Mr. Balladyce appeared,
where women might browse at leisure, but a vision of the little model.
She had not thought of her for quite an hour; she had tired herself out
with thinking-not, indeed, of her, but of all that hinged on her, ever
since Stephen had spoken of his talk with Hilary. Things Hilary had said
seemed to Cecilia's delicate and rather timid soul so ominous, so unlike
himself. Was there really going to be complete disruption between him
and Bianca--worse, an ugly scandal? She, who knew her sister better,
perhaps, than anyone, remembered from schoolroom days Bianca's moody
violence when anything had occurred to wound her--remembered, too, the
long fits of brooding that followed. This affair, which she had tried to
persuade herself was exaggerated, loomed up larger than ever. It was not
an isolated squib; it was a lighted match held to a train of gunpowder.
This girl of the people, coming from who knew where, destined for who
knew what--this young, not very beautiful, not even clever child, with
not