and down the pictures. Oh, horrible!
There was no singing for me then. My music died. At last that oldish
lady gave up her lessons, and said to me, 'You little rogue! you will do
what I do, some day;' for she was going to be married to that young man
who thought her voice so much improved; and she paid me three pounds,
and gave me one pound more, and some ribbons and gloves. I went at once
to my mother, and made her give me five pounds out of the gentleman's
purse. I took my harp and music-scores. I did not know where I was
going, but only that I could not stop. My mother cried: but she helped
to pack my things. If she disobeys me I act my father, and tower over
her, and frown, and make her mild. She was such a poor good slave to
me that day! but I trusted her no farther than the door. There I kissed
her, full of love, and reached the railway. They asked me where I was
going, and named places to me: I did not know one. I shut my eyes, and
prayed to be directed, and chose Hillford. In the train I was full of
music in a moment. There I met farmer Wilson, of the farm near us--where
your sisters found me; and he was kind, and asked me about myself; and I
mentioned lodgings, and that I longed for woods and meadows. Just as
we were getting out of the train, he said I was to come with him; and I
did, very gladly. Then I met you; and I am here. All because I prayed to
be directed--I do think that!"

Emilia clasped her hands, and looked pensively at the horizon sky, with
a face of calm gratefulness.

The cornet was on his legs. "So!" he said. "And you never saw anything
more of that fellow you kissed in the park?"

"Kissed?--that gentleman?" returned Emilia. "I have not kissed him. He
did not want it. Men kiss us when we are happy, and we kiss them when
they are unhappy."

Wilfrid was perhaps incompetent to test the truth of this profound
aphoristic remark, delivered with the simplicity of natural conviction.
The narrative had, to his thinking, quite released from him his
temporary subjection to this little lady's sway. All that he felt for
her personally now was pity. It speaks something for the strength of the
sentiment with which he had first conceived her, that it was not pelted
to death, and turned to infinite disgust, by her potatoes. For sentiment
is a dainty, delicate thing, incapable of bearing much: revengeful,
too, when it is outraged. Bruised and disfigured, it stood up still, and
fought against them. They were