day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose
amiable and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her
regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance; his
lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation. He began to ransack his
tutor's desk for a piece of wax or twine necessary to his work. Moore
happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a
long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search. He
rummaged compartment after compartment; and at last, opening an inner
drawer, he came upon--not a ball of cord or a lump of beeswax, but a
little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry
looked at them. "What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!" he
said. "I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully."

"What is it?"

"Old copy-books."

He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally
her curiosity was excited to see its contents.

"If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?"

"Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore's desk is half mine--for he lets me
keep all sorts of things in it--and I give you leave."

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand
peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was
recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name
signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that
name astonished her--"Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, ----shire" (a
southern county), and a date four years back.

She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She
half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.

"They are Shirley's, you see," said Henry carelessly.

"Did _you_ give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I
suppose?"

"She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with
us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language."

"I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?"

"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She
made lesson-time charming. She learned fast--you could hardly tell when
or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick--as quick
as Mr. Moore himself."

"Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?"

"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her.
I'm desperately fond of Shirley."

"_Desperately_ fond--you small simpleton! You don'