"Yes, liberty; if he did not think that we were fallen, ruined people——"
"Now, my dear child, your father's not ruined, I maintain it; there will be more left, I'm very certain, than he supposes; and I could have almost beaten you the other day for using that expression in speaking to Mr. Verney; but you are so impetuous—and then, could any one have done a more thoughtful or a kinder thing, and in a more perfectly delicate way? He hasn't made you a present; he has only contrived that a purchase should be thrown in your way, which of all others was exactly what you most wished; he has not appeared, and never will appear in it; and I know, for my part, I'm very much obliged to him—if he has done it—and I think he admires you too much to run a risk of offending you."
"What?"
"I do—I think he admires you."
The girl stood up again, and glanced at the mirror, I think, pleased, for a moment—and then took her candle, but paused by the table, looking thoughtfully. Was she paler than usual? or was it only that the light of the candle in her hand was thrown upward on her features? Then she said in a spoken meditation—
"There are dreams that have in them, I think, the germs of insanity; and the sooner we dissipate them, don't you think, the better and the wiser?"
She smiled, nodded, and went away.
Whose dreams did she mean? Cleve Verney's, Miss Sheckleton's, or—could it be, her own?