"She will ask if you sent your love; she is always particular on that point. You know she likes attention."
"My best love—my very best. And say to her that whenever she has time to write me a little note I shall be glad to hear from her."
"What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments."
"No, don't forget, Robert. It is no compliment; it is in good earnest."
"And must, therefore, be delivered punctually."
"If you please."
"Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tenderhearted on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying your uncle's injunctions too literally. Affection, like love, will be unjust now and then."
And Caroline made no answer to this observation; for indeed her heart was troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief if she had dared. If she had dared, too, she would have declared how the very flowers in the garden of Hollow's Cottage were dear to her; how the little parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how she longed to return to it, as much almost as the first woman, in her exile, must have longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she held her peace; she sat quiet at Robert's side, waiting for him to say something more. It was long since this proximity had been hers—long since his voice had addressed her; could she, with any show of probability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gave him pleasure, to her it would have given deep bliss. Yet, even in doubt that it pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received the boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the admission of sunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending against the sense of present happiness; to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.
"And are you glad or sad for all these menacing tidings?" she inquired of her tenant.