“Of her?”
“Of me.”
“My dear Di., shall I tell you what the world would say?”
“No, Lady Frances, I’ll tell you what the world would say—that Lady Diana Chillingworth’s house was an asylum for runaways.”
“An asylum for nonsense!—I beg your pardon, sister—but it always provokes me to see a person afraid to do what they think right, because, truly, ‘the world will say it is wrong.’ What signifies the uneasiness we may suffer from the idle blame or tittle-tattle of the day, compared with the happiness of a young girl’s whole life, which is at stake?”
“Oh, Lady Frances, that is spoken like yourself—I love you in my heart—that’s right! that’s right!” thought Clara Hope.
Lady Diana fell back a few paces, that she might consult one whose advice she always found agreeable to her own opinions.
“In my opinion,” whispered Miss Burrage to Lady Diana, “you are right, quite right, to have nothing more to do with the happiness of a young lady who has taken such a step.”
They were just leaving St. Vincent’s parade, when they heard the sound of music upon the walk by the river side, and they saw a little boy there, seated at the foot of a tree, playing on the guitar, and singing—
“J’ai quitté mon pays et mes amis,
Pour jouer de la guitare,
Qui va clin, clin, qui va clin, clin,
Qui va clin, clin, clin, clin.”