you so
well. A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift
off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your
shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore
lively--that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while."

Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she
observed, "That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description
of a snow scene."

"I remember," said Henry. "Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried, 'Voila le
Francais gagne!' He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw,
in sepia, the landscape you described."

"You have not forgotten, then, Hal?"

"Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea
when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you
standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him draw the snowy
cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon hung
above."

"Where are his drawings, Harry? Caroline should see them."

"In his portfolio. But it is padlocked; he has the key."

"Ask him for it when he comes in."

"You should ask him, Shirley. You are shy of him now. You are grown a
proud lady to him; I notice that."

"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in her ear. "What
queer discoveries I make day by day now!--I who thought I had your
confidence. Inexplicable creature! even this boy reproves you."

"I have forgotten 'auld lang syne,' you see, Harry," said Miss Keeldar,
answering young Sympson, and not heeding Caroline.

"Which you never should have done. You don't deserve to be a man's
morning star if you have so short a memory."

"A man's morning star, indeed! and by 'a man' is meant your worshipful
self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk while it is warm."

The young cripple rose and limped towards the fire; he had left his
crutch near the mantelpiece.

"My poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding
him.

"Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best, Shirley?" inquired the
boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.

"O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet."

"Me or Mr. Malone?"

"You again, a thousand times."

"Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each."

"Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be anything more
than a little pale lameter."

"Yes, I know."

"You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told you who was almost as
little