And now, after this toploftical illustration of the state of Ned's feelings, and inasmuch as they are about to resume their labor, let us leave them to their mowing, and see after Miss Nelly Malone, for love of whom poor Ned had tasted of the Pierian spring.
In a neat little chamber, bearing about it the unmistakable evidence of a tidy woman's care, sits the individual herself, her little fingers busily employed in knitting a very small stocking—her own; no trace of wealth is to be seen in this humble abode, but of its more than equivalent, comfort, it is redolent. At the open casement there peep in the blossoms of the honey-suckle and the sweet-pea, filling the air with a perfume, more grateful than art could ever obtain; sundry artless prints, and here and there a ballad on some heart-breaking subject, probably amongst them the highwayman's autoballadography, wherein he heroically observes,
"I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare,
And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square,"
are fastened to the walls, decorated with festoons of cut paper of most dazzling variety of color; a fine, plump, contented lark, in an open cage, which he scorns to leave, returns his mistress's caress with a wild, grateful song, whilst, tutored into friendliness, a beautiful sleek puss, whose furry coat glances like satin in the sun-ray, dozes quietly upon the window-sill, indulging in that low purr, which is the sure indication of a happy cat. It is the home of innocence and beauty, fitly tenanted.
And what are pretty Nelly's thoughts, I wonder; a shade of something, which may be anxiety or doubt, but scarcely sorrow, softens the brightness of her lovely face. She speaks, 'twill be no treason to listen. You will perceive that the cat is her confidante—a discreet one it must be confessed.
"It's foolishness, so it is; isn't it puss?"
Puss doesn't condescend to notice the remark.
"Now, Minny, isn't it, I ask you, isn't it folly, the worst of folly to be thinkin' of one who doesn't think of me? I won't do it any more, that I won't. Heigh 'ho! I wonder if he loves me. I somehow fancy he does, and yet again if he did, why couldn't he say so; there's one thing certain, and that is, I don't love him, that is to say, I won't love him; a pretty thing, indeed, to give my heart to one who wouldn't give me his in return. That would be a bad bargain, wouldn't it, puss?"
Pussy acquiesced, for silence, they say, is synonymous.