A star falls, hurling itself mysteriously down the sky, and into the dark; two bats glide past, dusky, noiseless. Bats always seem to me like the ghosts of dead birds, that haunt the green gardens and copses they used to love.
St. John speaks presently. "One forms mistaken estimates of people's characters; I should not have imagined you a coward."
"But I am one, physically and morally," she answers, sighing.
As the ladies retire to bed, Miss Blessington enters Esther's room—a familiarity which somewhat surprises that virgin, as it is the first time that it has been accorded to her.
"I have come to congratulate you!" Constance says, civilly; "you have made a wonderful recovery."
"Yes, wonderful!"
"You can walk perfectly well without assistance, cannot you?"
"Perfectly" (turning away her head, in the guilty consciousness of having, despite her soundness of limb, not walked without assistance).
"St. John is very useful as a walking-stick, isn't he?" (playfully.)
"He thought it would tire me less," replies the other, flushing; "he has been most kind!"