es sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears
covered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her
curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked
of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was
carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where
minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the
house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just
articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister
and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a
solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind
anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the
subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the
parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.

CHAPTER XLVII

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the
feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing
could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through
his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing
could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the
interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself,--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
Willoughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the
simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his
character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without