“But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full of enemies, if—” but no; that sentence must not be continued—I paused, and hastily added,—“And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.”
“Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil and companion?”
“I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted with her sister.”
“I can imagine that.”
“Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good—better in one respect.”
“What is that?”
“She’s honest.”
“And the other is not?”
“I should not call her dishonest; but it must be confessed she’s a little artful.”
“Artful is she?—I saw she was giddy and vain—and now,” he added, after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too; but so excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness. Yes,” continued he, musingly, “that accounts for some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.”