, I'll do it by marrying
somebody else."

Justina stopped and stooped instantly, as if to gather some delicate
leaves of silver-weed that grew in the sand; and Emily, who had caught
her step, turned for one instant, and saw her without being perceived.

Justina knew what these words meant, and stood still arranging her
leaves, to let them pass on and the others come up. Soon after which
they all merged into one group. John gave his arm to Mrs. Henfrey, and
Emily, falling behind, began to consider how much Justina had heard, and
what she would do.

Now Dorothea had said in the easiest way possible to Justina, "I shall
ask our new clergyman to take Emily in to luncheon, and Mr. Mortimer to
take you." Justina knew now that the game was up; she was not quick of
perception, but neither was she vacillating. When once she had decided
on any course, she never had the discomfort of wishing afterwards that
she had done otherwise. There was undoubtedly a rumour going about to
the effect that John Mortimer liked her, and was "coming forward." No
one knew better than herself and her mother how this rumour had been
wafted on, and how little there was in it. "Yet," she reflected, "it was
my best chance. It was necessary to put it into his head somehow to
think about me in such a light; but that others have thought too much
and said too much, it might have succeeded. What I should like best
now," she further considered, pondering slowly over the words in her
mind, "would be to have people say that I have refused him."

She had reached this point when Emily joined her walking silently
beside her, that she might not appear companionless. Emily was full of
pity for her, in spite of the lightening of her own heart. People who
have nothing to hope best know what a lifting of the cloud it is to have
also nothing to fear.

The poetical temperament of Emily's mind made her frequently change
places with others, and, indeed, become in thought those others--fears,
feelings, and all.

"What are you crying for, Emily?" her mother had once said to her, when
she was a little child.

"I'm not Emily now," she answered; "I'm the poor little owl, and I can't
help crying because that cruel Smokey barked at me and frightened me,
and pulled several of my best feathers out."

And now, just the same, Emily was Justina, and such thoughts as Justina
might be supposed to be thinking passed through Emily's mind somewhat in
this way:--

"No; it is not