ere had been a
shuffling of feet, as though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a
moaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining the truth: for
any question or entreaty on their parts only provoked a storm of
execrations, or something worse; and they were too happy to be left
alone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk even that comfort,
by any voluntary communication with those who held them in durance.

It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith's poor
little daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of
attraction; and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in
the softer passion, Hugh and Mr Tappertit would certainly fall to blows
for her sake; in which latter case, it was not very difficult to see
whose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man
revived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no
language can describe; with a thousand old recollections and regrets,
and causes of distress, anxiety, and fear, besetting her on all sides;
poor Dolly Varden--sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly--began to hang her head,
and fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her
cheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful
of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and
inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she
nestled all the livelong day in Emma Haredale's bosom; and, sometimes
calling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and
sometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in
its cage.

Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that
are so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine--down upon fruit, bloom
upon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose
whole existence is a day--how soon ye sink in troubled water! Poor
Dolly's heart--a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing; giddy, restless,
fluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and smiles and
laughter--Dolly's heart was breaking.

Emma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort
to impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly
clung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her
with some fortitude, she increased her own; and though the nights
were long, and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence
of watching and fatigue, and had perha