h their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, that
threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall.

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instant
longer than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and his
family. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible
not to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But
Hetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances--she was absorbed
in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church,
for the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by this time. She
had never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursday
evening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on just
the same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then
had brought no changes after them; they were already like a dream. When
she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared not
look up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself.
That must be old Mr. Donnithorne--he always came first, the wrinkled
small old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing
and curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing,
and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little
coal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't
mind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies--no, he was not come;
she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew door but the
house-keeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hat
that had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of the
butler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look now--she
might be mistaken--for, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted
up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in the
chancel--there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacles
with his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged
prayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt
herself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what
SHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she was
crying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderful
hothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It was
dreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she could
kneel down. Two great drops WOULD