are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But
SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever
see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

CHAPTER 17

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him befor