owding to her tongue. She
would not give them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment.
What, Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there,
visible, but untranslatable--a poem, a fervid lyric, in an unknown
tongue. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush of feeling, no
ordinary love-confession--that was obvious. It was something other,
deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not
struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault,
baffled, puzzled. _She_ enjoyed the moment, not _he_.

"And if Moore _is_ a gentleman, you _can_ be only a lady; therefore----"

"Therefore there would be no inequality in our union."

"None."

"Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquish
the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"

Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not
divine what her look signified--whether she spoke in earnest or in jest.
There were purpose and feeling, banter and scoff, playing, mingled, on
her mobile lineaments.

"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.

She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not singular in your ignorance.
But I suppose if Moore understands me that will do, will it not?"

"Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me; I'll neither
meddle nor make with them further."

A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed magically. With a
sudden darkening of the eye and austere fixing of the features she
demanded, "Have you been asked to interfere? Are you questioning me as
another's proxy?"

"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look about him! Keep all your
questions for Robert; I'll answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"

* * * * *

The day being fine, or at least fair--for soft clouds curtained the sun,
and a dim but not chill or waterish haze slept blue on the
hills--Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her callers, had
persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet and summer shawl, and to take
a walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.

Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becoming
clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the
bottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course,
struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting with
gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when
you