In the niche of a hollow oak was crouching, falling backward with terror, and clutching at the brave old bark, yet trying to hide behind it—only the snowy arms would come outwards—a beautiful girl, clad in summer white on that foggy day of December. The brown cloak, which had protected her from sylvan curiosity, lay on the ground, a few yards away, on the spot so sad and sacred. Pearl Garnetʼs grief, if we knew the whole of it, or perhaps because we cannot, was greater than any girl could bear. A lovely, young, and loving maid, with stores of imagination, yet a practical power of stowing it; of building castles, yet keeping them all within compass of the kitchen–range; quite different from our Amy, yet a better wife for _some_ men—according to what the trumps are, and Amy must have hearts, or she dies;—that very nice girl, we have let her go weep, and never once cared to follow her. There is never any justice in this world; therefore who cares to apologise? It would take up all our business–time, if we did it properly. Now, as she stretched her white arms forth, and her delicate form shrunk back into the black embrace of the oak–tree; while her rich hair was streaming all down her breast, and her dark eyes still full of tear–drops; the rider no less than the horse was amazed, and seemed to behold a vision. Then as she shrunk away into the tree–bole, with a shriek of deadly terror—for what love casteth out fear?—and she saw not through the ivy–screen, and Coræbus groaned sepulchrally, Pell came down with a dash on one foot, and went, quick jump, to help her. In a fainting fit,—for the heart so firm and defiant in days of happiness was fluxed now and frail with misery—she was cowering away in the dark tree–nook, like the pearls of mistletoe fallen, with her head thrown back (such an elegant head, a womanʼs greatest beauty), and the round arms hanging helpless. Hereupon Mr. Pell was abroad. He had never experienced any sisters, nor much mother consciously—being the eighth son, as of course we know, of a jolly Yorkshire baronet; at any rate he had lost his mother at the birth of Nonus Pell; and I am sorry there are not ninety of them, if of equal merit. So Octavius stood like a fish out of water, with both hands in his pocket, as it is so generally the habit of fishes to stand. Then, meaning no especial harm, nor perhaps great good, for that matter, he said to himself— “Confound it all. What the deuce am I to do?”