Chương Chương 25 · The Little Countess

ITTLE COUNTESS.

Cheerful as my godmother naturally was, and entertaining as, for our

sakes, she made a point of being, there was no true enjoyment that

evening at La Terrasse, till, through the wild howl of the

winter-night, were heard the signal sounds of arrival. How often, while

women and girls sit warm at snug fire-sides, their hearts and

imaginations are doomed to divorce from the comfort surrounding their

persons, forced out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare

stress of weather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely

gates and stiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to see and

hear the father, the son, the husband coming home.

Father and son came at last to the château: for the Count de

Bassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which of

our trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of the

weather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet the

two riders as they came in; but they warned us to keep our distance:

both were white—two mountains of snow; and indeed Mrs. Bretton, seeing

their condition, ordered them instantly to the kitchen; prohibiting

them, at their peril, from setting foot on her carpeted staircase till

they had severally put off that mask of Old Christmas they now

affected. Into the kitchen, however, we could not help following them:

it was a large old Dutch kitchen, picturesque and pleasant. The little

white Countess danced in a circle about her equally white sire,

clapping her hands and crying, “Papa, papa, you look like an enormous

Polar bear.”

The bear shook himself, and the little sprite fled far from the frozen

shower. Back she came, however, laughing, and eager to aid in removing

the arctic disguise. The Count, at last issuing from his dreadnought,

threatened to overwhelm her with it as with an avalanche.

“Come, then,” said she, bending to invite the fall, and when it was

playfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like some

little chamois.

Her movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten;

her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she took

her sire’s cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reach his

lips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of loving

delight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men _do_

look on what is the apple of their eye.

“Mrs. Bretton,” said he: “what am I to do with this daughter or

daughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature. Don’t

you find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was ten years ago?”

“She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine,” said Mrs.

Bretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dress

she deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning against

the Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm’s length.

“Come, mamma,” said he, “by way of compromise, and to secure for us

inward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup,

and toast Old England here, on the hearth.”

So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still danced to

and fro—happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen—Mrs. Bretton

herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl, and,

pouring the draught into a Bretton flagon, it was served round, reaming

hot, by means of a small silver vessel, which I recognised as Graham’s

christening-cup.

“Here’s to Auld Lang Syne!” said the Count; holding the glancing cup on

high. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton.—

“We twa ha’ paidlet i’ the burn

Fra morning sun till dine,

But seas between us braid ha’ roared

Sin’ auld lang syne.

“And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,

And surely I’ll be mine;

And we’ll taste a cup o’ kindness yet

For auld lang syne.”

“Scotch! Scotch!” cried Paulina; “papa is talking Scotch; and Scotch he

is, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic.”

“And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?” asked

her father. “Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the

middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite

cannie: she is a strange little mortal.”

“Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe.”

Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as

of proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, saying kindly,

“he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been less

trustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter’s lips, and he had

listened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an old

acquaintance.”

Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas de

fée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so

profanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulked of

her mortal privileges.

“Let me taste,” said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on the

shelf of the dresser out of her reach.

Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr. John

had not been unobservant of the fairy’s dance; he had watched it, and

he had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of the

movements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his

mother’s house charmed him, for it set _him_ at ease: again she seemed

a child for him—again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would

speak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his first words

proved that the old days of “little Polly” had been recalled to his

mind by this evening’s child-like light-heartedness.

“Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?”

“I think I said so. I think I intimated as much.”

“Couldn’t consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it,

but couldn’t do it.”

“Why? I am quite well now: it can’t break my collar-bone again, or

dislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?”

“No; nor dew.”

“I don’t want dew; I don’t like dew: but what is it?”

“Ale—strong ale—old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born.”

“It must be curious: is it good?”

“Excessively good.”

And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this

mighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentment

with the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.

“I should like a little,” said Paulina, looking up; “I never had any

‘old October:’ is it sweet?”

“Perilously sweet,” said Graham.

She continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child that

longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it

down, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste

from his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation of

pleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it _was_ a

gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the

cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by

which its brim was courted.

“A little more—a little more,” said she, petulantly touching his hand

with the forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and

yieldingly. “It smells of spice and sugar, but I can’t taste it; your

wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.”

He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: “Don’t tell my

mother or Lucy; they wouldn’t approve.”

“Nor do I,” said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as

she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her

like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: “I find

it anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath.

Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no

more.”

And, with a slight bend—careless, but as graceful as her dance—she

glided from him and rejoined her father.

I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl of

seventeen.

Graham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled; his eye was

on her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did not seem

to notice him.

As we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father’s arm:

her natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears were

dedicated to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our

little party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closely to

all that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that trait or

adventure.

“And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then?

And tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion.” Thus she drew

him out.

She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantine

sparkle was exhaled for the night: she was soft, thoughtful, and

docile. It was pretty to see her bid good-night; her manner to Graham

was touched with dignity: in her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke

the Countess, and Graham could not but look grave, and bend responsive.

I saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the dancing

fairy and delicate dame.

Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast-table,

shivering and fresh from the morning’s chill ablutions, Mrs. Bretton

pronounced a decree that nobody, who was not forced by dire necessity,

should quit her house that day.

Indeed, egress seemed next to impossible; the drift darkened the lower

panes of the casement, and, on looking out, one saw the sky and air

vexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fall

now, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled

round by brief shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundred fantastic

forms.

The Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.

“Papa shall not go out,” said she, placing a seat for herself beside

her father’s arm-chair. “I will look after him. You won’t go into town,

will you, papa?”

“Ay, and No,” was the answer. “If you and Mrs. Bretton are _very_ good

to me, Polly—kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in a very

nice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an

hour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles.

But, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing: you let

me starve.”

“Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee,” entreated

Paulina, “whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in other

respects: since he grew into a Count, he has needed _so_ much

attention.”

She separated and prepared a roll.

“There, papa, are your ‘pistolets’ charged,” said she. “And there is

some marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at

Bretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved in

Scotland—”

“And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy—do you remember

that?” interposed Mrs. Bretton. “Have you forgotten how you would come

to my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, ‘Please, ma’am,

something good for Graham—a little marmalade, or honey, or jam?’”

“No, mamma,” broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; “it surely was

not so: I could not have cared for these things.”

“Did he or did he not, Paulina?”

“He liked them,” asserted Paulina.

“Never blush for it, John,” said Mr. Home, encouragingly. “I like them

myself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering for

a friend’s material comforts: it was I who put her into the way of such

good manners—nor do I let her forget them. Polly, offer me a small

slice of that tongue.”

“There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon with this

assiduity; on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourself

to La Terrasse for the day.”

“Mrs. Bretton,” said the Count, “I want to get rid of my daughter—to

send her to school. Do you know of any good school?”

“There is Lucy’s place—Madame Beck’s.”

“Miss Snowe is in a school?”

“I am a teacher,” I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of

saying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a

false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but the

Count and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some

shades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my grade

in society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm of thoughts I had not

anticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sigh

involuntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate

for about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught the

words—perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature,

politeness would interdict comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud;

and homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I have

all along intimated that he was not without his share of the national

quality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leave the

question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me

individually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself a

true-hearted gentleman.

By nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions and his

reflections spread a mellowing of melancholy; more than a mellowing: in

trouble and bereavement it became a cloud. He did not know much about

Lucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately comprehend: indeed

his misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but he saw my

walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill: he gave me

credit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight; he

would have helped me if he could: having no opportunity of helping, he

still wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind; when he

did speak, his voice was benevolent.

“Yours,” said he, “is an arduous calling. I wish you health and

strength to win in it—success.”

His fair little daughter did not take the information quite so

composedly: she fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder—almost with

dismay.

“Are you a teacher?” cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatable

idea, “Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking:

for me, you were always Lucy Snowe.”

“And what am I now?” I could not forbear inquiring.

“Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?”

“I really do.”

“And do you like it?”

“Not always.”

“And why do you go on with it?”

Her father looked at, and, I feared, was going to check her; but he

only said, “Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism—prove yourself

the little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush and look

confused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue; and you and I

would sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she only smiles,

so push her hard, multiply the cross-questions. Well, Miss Snowe, why

do you go on with it?”

“Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get.”

“Not then from motives of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clinging

to that hypothesis as the most lenient way of accounting for your

eccentricity.”

“No—no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep

over my head; and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think that

while I can work for myself, I am spared the pain of being a burden to

anybody.”

“Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy.”

“Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, as

you might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without

leave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and

receive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know by

experience the uncertain nature of this world’s goods, I should like

her to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burden

neither kith nor kin.”

“Yes, papa,” said she, pensively and tractably. “But poor Lucy! I

thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.”

“You thought like a little simpleton. _I_ never thought so. When I had

time to consider Lucy’s manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw

she was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and not be

served: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for

which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet

bless Providence. But this school,” he pursued, changing his tone from

grave to gay: “would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss

Lucy?”

I said, there needed but to try Madame; it would soon be seen: she was

fond of English pupils. “If you, sir,” I added, “will but take Miss de

Bassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I can answer

for it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow in answering

your ring; and Madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves

to come into the salon to receive you.”

“In that case,” responded Mr. Home, “I see no sort of necessity there

is for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send what she calls her young lady’s

‘things’ after her; Polly can settle down to her horn-book before

night; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain to cast an

occasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how she

gets on. I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess de

Bassompierre?”

The Countess hemmed and hesitated. “I thought,” said she, “I thought I

had finished my education—”

“That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our thoughts. I hold a

far different opinion, as most of these will who have been auditors of

your profound knowledge of life this morning. Ah, my little girl, thou

hast much to learn; and papa ought to have taught thee more than he has

done! Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; and the

weather seems settling, and I have finished my breakfast—”

“But, papa!”

“Well?”

“I see an obstacle.”

“I don’t at all.”

“It is enormous, papa; it can never be got over; it is as large as you

in your greatcoat, and the snowdrift on the top.”

“And, like that snowdrift, capable of melting?”

“No! it is of too—too solid flesh: it is just your own self. Miss Lucy,

warn Madame Beck not to listen to any overtures about taking me,

because, in the end, it would turn out that she would have to take papa

too: as he is so teasing, I will just tell tales about him. Mrs.

Bretton and all of you listen: About five years ago, when I was twelve

years old, he took it into his head that he was spoiling me; that I was

growing unfitted for the world, and I don’t know what, and nothing

would serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried, and so

on; but M. de Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite firm and flinty,

and to school I went. What was the result? In the most admirable

manner, papa came to school likewise: every other day he called to see

me. Madame Aigredoux grumbled, but it was of no use; and so, at last,

papa and I were both, in a manner, expelled. Lucy can just tell Madame

Beck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what she has to

expect.”

Mrs. Bretton asked Mr. Home what he had to say in answer to this

statement. As he made no defence, judgment was given against him, and

Paulina triumphed.

But she had other moods besides the arch and naïve. After breakfast;

when the two elders withdrew—I suppose to talk over certain of Mrs.

Bretton’s business matters—and the Countess, Dr. Bretton, and I, were

for a short time alone together—all the child left her; with us, more

nearly her companions in age, she rose at once to the little lady: her

very face seemed to alter; that play of feature, and candour of look,

which, when she spoke to her father, made it quite dimpled and round,

yielded to an aspect more thoughtful, and lines distincter and less

_mobile_.

No doubt Graham noted the change as well as I. He stood for some

minutes near the window, looking out at the snow; presently he

approached the hearth, and entered into conversation, but not quite

with his usual ease: fit topics did not seem to rise to his lips; he

chose them fastidiously, hesitatingly, and consequently infelicitously:

he spoke vaguely of Villette—its inhabitants, its notable sights and

buildings. He was answered by Miss de Bassompierre in quite womanly

sort; with intelligence, with a manner not indeed wholly

disindividualized: a tone, a glance, a gesture, here and there, rather

animated and quick than measured and stately, still recalled little

Polly; but yet there was so fine and even a polish, so calm and

courteous a grace, gilding and sustaining these peculiarities, that a

less sensitive man than Graham would not have ventured to seize upon

them as vantage points, leading to franker intimacy.

Yet while Dr. Bretton continued subdued, and, for him, sedate, he was

still observant. Not one of those petty impulses and natural breaks

escaped him. He did not miss one characteristic movement, one

hesitation in language, or one lisp in utterance. At times, in speaking

fast, she still lisped; but coloured whenever such lapse occurred, and

in a painstaking, conscientious manner, quite as amusing as the slight

error, repeated the word more distinctly.

Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as they

conversed, the restraint on each side slackened: might the conference

have but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial:

already to Paulina’s lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling

smile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I

know not how _he_ changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer—no

raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect—but his position seemed

to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented

comfort in readier language, in tones more suave. Ten years ago this

pair had always found abundance to say to each other; the intervening

decade had not narrowed the experience or impoverished the intelligence

of either: besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual

influence is such, that the more they say, the more they have to say.

For these out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion,

amalgamation.

Graham, however, must go: his was a profession whose claims are neither

to be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before he could leave

the house there was a return. I am sure he came back—not for the paper,

or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand—but to assure

himself, by one more glance, that Paulina’s aspect was really such as

memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her somehow by a

partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No! he found the

impression true—rather, indeed, he gained than lost by this return: he

took away with him a parting look—shy, but very soft—as beautiful, as

innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of its cover of fern, or

any lamb from its meadow-bed.

Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time: we both

took out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white-wood

workbox of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious

mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling

fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now

swift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow,

the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and

movements—now to replace a stray tress, and anon to shake from the

silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust—some clinging fibre of thread.

That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury of the

winter-day had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion of

January, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm had

raved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had Ginevra

Fanshawe been my companion in that drawing-room, she would not have

suffered me to muse and listen undisturbed. The presence just gone from

us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes

on one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered me with questions

and surmises—worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I

did not want, and longed to avoid.

Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetrating

glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the

impulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected my

inclination for silence.

“This will not hold long,” I thought to myself; for I was not

accustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, or

strength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip

about their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry

feelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone.

The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed till she was tired

of sewing, and then she took a book.

As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton’s own

compartment of the bookcase; and it proved to be an old Bretton

book—some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen her

standing at Graham’s side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading

to his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat,

that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly:

here was a true test of that memory she had boasted; would her

recollections now be faithful?

Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her

face passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of

which was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to the

title-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She

looked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she

gently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying

the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the

touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity of

this little scene was, that she _said_ nothing: she could feel without

pouring out her feelings in a flux of words.

She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking

down volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This

done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand,

and thought, and still was mute.

The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her

father’s voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at

last. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.

“Papa! papa! you are not going out?”

“My pet, I must go into town.”

“But it is too—_too_ cold, papa.”

And then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well

provided against the weather; and how he was going to have the

carriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered; and, in short, proving that

she need not fear for his comfort.

“But you will promise to come back here this evening, before it is

quite dark;—you and Dr. Bretton, both, in the carriage? It is not fit

to ride.”

“Well, if I see the Doctor, I will tell him a lady has laid on him her

commands to take care of his precious health and come home early under

my escort.”

“Yes, you must say a lady; and he will think it is his mother, and be

obedient. And, papa, mind to come soon, for I _shall_ watch and

listen.”

The door closed, and the carriage rolled softly through the snow; and

back returned the Countess, pensive and anxious.

She _did_ listen, and watch, when evening closed; but it was in

stillest sort: walking the drawing-room with quite noiseless step. She

checked at intervals her velvet march; inclined her ear, and consulted

the night sounds: I should rather say, the night silence; for now, at

last, the wind was fallen. The sky, relieved of its avalanche, lay

naked and pale: through the barren boughs of the avenue we could see it

well, and note also the polar splendour of the new-year moon—an orb

white as a world of ice. Nor was it late when we saw also the return of

the carriage.

Paulina had no dance of welcome for this evening. It was with a sort of

gravity that she took immediate possession of her father, as he entered

the room; but she at once made him her entire property, led him to the

seat of her choice, and, while softly showering round him honeyed words

of commendation for being so good and coming home so soon, you would

have thought it was entirely by the power of her little hands he was

put into his chair, and settled and arranged; for the strong man seemed

to take pleasure in wholly yielding himself to this dominion-potent

only by love.

Graham did not appear till some minutes after the Count. Paulina half

turned when his step was heard: they spoke, but only a word or two;

their fingers met a moment, but obviously with slight contact. Paulina

remained beside her father; Graham threw himself into a seat on the

other side of the room.

It was well that Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home had a great deal to say to

each other—almost an inexhaustible fund of discourse in old

recollections; otherwise, I think, our party would have been but a

still one that evening.

After tea, Paulina’s quick needle and pretty golden thimble were busily

plied by the lamp-light, but her tongue rested, and her eyes seemed

reluctant to raise often their lids, so smooth and so full-fringed.

Graham, too, must have been tired with his day’s work: he listened

dutifully to his elders and betters, said very little himself, and

followed with his eye the gilded glance of Paulina’s thimble; as if it

had been some bright moth on the wing, or the golden head of some

darting little yellow serpent.

CHAPTER 26. A Burial

A BU