, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin solitude. Unknown birds
flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on
whose banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a
lonely emigrant in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever
come back?

The three eldest of the family are all boys--Matthew, Mark, and Martin.
They are seated together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observe
their three heads: much alike at a first glance; at a second, different;
at a third, contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the
whole trio; small English features they all possess; all own a blended
resemblance to sire and mother; and yet a distinctive physiognomy, mark
of a separate character, belongs to each.

I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of the house, though
it is impossible to avoid gazing at him long, and conjecturing what
qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is no plain-looking boy:
that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, dark
eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as you
will, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister,
to which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, ever
and anon, it reminds you strangely--the eruption of Vesuvius? Flame and
shadow seem the component parts of that lad's soul--no daylight in it,
and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has an
English frame, but, apparently, not an English mind--you would say, an
Italian stiletto in a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in
the game--look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he say? In
a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin, don't anger your brother." And
this is ever the tone adopted by both parents. Theoretically, they decry
partiality--no rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house;
but Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed; they avert
provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire from a
barrel of gunpowder. "Concede, conciliate," is their motto wherever he
is concerned. The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own
flesh and blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart
they all rebel against the injustice. They cannot read their parents'
motives; they only see the difference of treatment. The dragon's teeth
are already sown amongst Mr. Yorke's young olive-branches; discord will
one day be