With a wooden spoon Nellie scattered the food among them from her bowl, looking down at the pretty, clean, scrambling little creatures—both she, they, the blossoming trees, and ruddy walls making a charming picture. But a change had come over her. The smile, the play of feature, vanished. The cheek seemed to sharpen, the dark line under the eyes to darken yet more. A settled sadness seemed to touch her. Was it thus she looked when she had not to amuse her father, when she had not to put a force upon herself, and feign cheerfulness for the sake of those about her—when she found herself alone, in short? Vain heart of mine!—for was this not a confession that she dare be herself before me, that I was privileged to witness what she hid from others? There was a compression about the lips now, a kindling of the eyes, which told me she was coming straight to the point, like the fine and fearless woman she was—but I little expected to what point. She set down the bowl upon the grass, where the greedy chicks swarmed over and into it, and thrusting her hand within the bosom of her dress drew out a letter. ‘This reached me a week ago,’ she said. ‘I could not show it to my father, nor to dear Aunt Ann. Had you not been coming, I must have written to you, Mr. Brownlow. Suspense was intolerable; and, if you yourself knew, I was sure you would tell me the truth.’ She put the letter into my hand. I recognised the writing at once, and with a feeling of shame and sorrow, amounting almost to horror, looked her in the face. God! how glorious it was in its agony—courage which could meet anything which must be; act on anything which was right; and, with all, such invincible sweetness! I read the letter. ‘Silly Country Girl—Listen to me, and cease to follow what you will never win and try to reach honours which belong to bolder hearts than yours. You are thrown aside and done with, like his old glove, his old shoe. Know, then—but do not tell it, for the day you do tell shall be the last safe one of your life—that he is married already; and to me, who am far cleverer than you, and can please him better, love him better than you, ignorant little peasant, could ever please or love.’ ‘Devil!’ was all I said, as I finished this melodramatic effusion, for anger and disgust choked me. ‘It is so, then?’—from Nellie, watching me. ‘You asked me to be truthful?—It is. I know the handwriting too well.’ ‘Whose is it?’ she asked, in a low but steady voice. ‘That of the person—the Frenchwoman—whom he has married.’ ‘Mademoiselle Fédore, who used to be at Hover?’ ‘Mademoiselle Fédore.’ She raised her head, standing stiffly erect, her whole form tense and rigid for a moment. I could not speak. What comfort could I offer? Her grief was too sacred for me to profane it with any chance words of sympathy. I could only admire, reverence,—aye, and worship—before this martyrdom of true love.