“What is it, ’Bella?” I again inquired, when a proper time had elapsed. “Do tell us what has happened!”
“Nothing. I thought I would just step in and bring you a paper. The critics have taken you up.”
“ME!”
There was something shocking in it, inconceivably shocking; and my heart cut an involuntary pigeon-wing, (it hasn’t learned the Polka,) while I mechanically stretched out my hand for the paper. But there was a look on the face of Cousin ’Bel, unlike the one she wore when she first encouraged my first timid sketch; and I felt that I should have but partial sympathy. (Thank Heaven, it was only a dream!) Under such circumstances, it was best not to appear too anxious.
“Is the criticism so very important,” I inquired, turning my eyes with desperate resolution from the paper, which rustled in my shaking hand, “that you should come to bring it me on such a day as this?”
“Pretty important, as things go now; and, of course, the storm would have no influence in keeping me in doors.”
“Of course!”
“Ay! you act as though you had not heard of the Great Reform.”
How my curiosity was divided between the news and the criticism!
“Alderbrook is an out-of-the-way place,” interposed my mother.