"What beautiful words!" said Clara, in a whisper that seemed to have more sweetness than other whispers, just as some shadows have more symmetry than other shadows. She meant, "Unto whom I sware in my wrath," and the rest.
"Yes," I answered, "I like those words, all of them, and the way they are put. I always liked them when I was a little boy."
It was very hard to Miss Benette not to reply here, I could tell, she so entirely agreed with me; but Davy was recalling our attention. When the class was over, she resumed,—
"I know exactly what you mean; for I used to feel it at the old church in London, where I went with Mr. Davy's aunt, and could not see above the pew, it was so high."
"Did you like her, Miss Benette? Is she like him?"
"No, not much. She is a good deal stricter, but she is exceedingly good; taller than he is, with much darker eyes. She taught me so much, and was so kind to me, that I only wonder I did not love her a great deal more."
I felt rather aghast, for, to tell the truth, I only wonder when I love,—never when I am indifferent, as to most persons. As we were going out, I asked leave to come and practise on the morrow,—I felt I must come. I wonder what I should have done had she refused me! "Certainly, Master Auchester." But she was looking after Laura. "Let me pin up that shawl, dear, and tie my veil upon your bonnet,—mind you wear it down in the street." The child certainly seemed to have put on her clothes in a dream, for her great shawl trailed a yard behind her on the floor, and did not cover her shoulders at all. Her bonnet-strings, now very disorderly indeed, were entangled in a knot, which Clara patiently endeavored to divide. I waited as long as I dared, but Davy was staying for me I knew, and at last he waved his hand. I could no longer avoid seeing him, and said to Clara, "Good-night." She smiled, but did not rise; she was kneeling before Laura. "Good-night, Miss Lemark."
She only looked up. The large eyes seemed like the drops of rain after a drenching shower within the chalice of some wood anemone,—too heavy for the fragile face in which they were set, and from which they gazed as if unconscious of gazing. I thought to myself, as I went out, she will die, I suppose; but I did not tell Davy so, because of his reply when I had first spoken of Laura's illness. I felt very dispirited though, and shrank from the notion, though it still obtruded itself. Davy was very quiet. I recollect it to have been a white foggy night, and more keen than cold: perhaps that was the reason, as he was never strong in health. When I came to our door—how well I remember it!—I pulled him in upon the mat before he well knew what I was about.
"Oh! Master Charles," exclaimed Margareth, who was exclusive porteress in our select establishment, "your brother has brought you a parcel,—a present, no doubt."
"Oh! my goodness; where is Fred?"