o said that?"

"Rochefoucauld, I believe."

"Like him--" said Eleanor.

"How is that? wise?"

"No indeed; false."

"He was a philosopher, and you are not even a student in that school."

"He was not a true man; and that I know by the lights he never knew."

"He told the time of day by the world's clock, Eleanor. You go by a
private sun-dial of your own."

"The sun is right, Mr. Carlisle! He was a vile old maligner of human
nature."

"Where did you learn to know him so well?" said Mr. Carlisle, amused.

"You may well ask. I used to study French sentences out of him; because
they were in nice little detached bits; and when I came to understand
him I judged him accordingly."

"By the sun. Few men will stand that, Eleanor. Give an instance."

"We are in the village."

"I see it."

"I told you I wanted to make a visit, Macintosh."

"May I go too?"

"Why certainly; but I am afraid you will not know what to do with
yourself. It is at the house of Mrs. Lewis,--my old nurse."

"Do you think I never go into cottages?" said he smiling.

Eleanor did not know what to make of him; however, it was plain he
would go with her into this one; so she took him in, and then had to
tell who he was, and blushed for shame and vexation to see her old
nurse's delighted and deep curtseys at the honour done her. She made
her escape to see Jane; and leaving Mr. Carlisle to his own devices,
gladly shut herself into the little stairway which led up from the
kitchen to Jane's room. The door closed behind her, Eleanor let fall
the spirit-mask she wore before Mr. Carlisle,--wore consciously for him
and half unconsciously for herself,--and her feet went slowly and
heavily up the stair. A short stairway it was, and she had short time
to linger; she did not linger; she went into Jane's room. Eleanor had
not been there since the night of her watch.

It was like coming out of the woods upon an open champaign, as she
stood by the side of the sick girl. Jane was lying bolstered up, as
usual; disease shewed no stay of its ravages since Eleanor had been
there last; all that was as it had been. The thin cheek with its
feverish hue; the unnaturally bright eyes; the attitude of feebleness.
But the mouth was quiet and at rest to-day; and that mysterious region
of expression around the eyes had lost all its seams and lines of care
and anxiety; and the eyes themselves looked at Eleanor with that calm
full simplicity that one sees in an infant's