knew that it was quite
usual for gentlemen to fall in love with pretty little girls who were
not of their own station;--why not with her? So she went on, half
running, keeping up with Mr Wentworth, and sometimes stealing sly
glances at him to see what intention was in his looks. But his looks
were beyond Rosa's reading. He walked by her side without speaking, and
gave a glance up at the window of the summer-house as they passed. And
strange enough, that evening of all others, Miss Dora, who had been the
victim of some of Miss Leonora's caustic criticisms, had strayed forth,
in melancholy mood, to repose herself at her favourite window, and look
out at the faint stars, and comfort herself with a feeble repetition of
her favourite plea, that it was not "my fault." The poor lady was
startled out of her own troubles by the sight of her nephew's tall
unmistakable figure; and, as bad luck would have it, Rosa's hat, tied
insecurely by her agitated fingers, blew off at that moment, so that Mr
Wentworth's aunt became aware, to her inexpressible horror and
astonishment, who his companion was. The unhappy Curate divined all the
thoughts that would arise in her perturbed bosom, when he saw the
indistinct figure at the window, and said something to himself about
_espionage_, which was barely civil to Miss Dora, as he hurried along on
his charitable errand. He was out of one trouble into another, this
unlucky young man. He knocked sharply at Elsworthy's closed door, and
gave up his charge without speaking to Rosa. "I brought her home because
I thought it wrong to let her go up Grange Lane by herself," said the
Curate. "Don't thank me; but if you have any regard for the child, don't
send her out at night again." He did not even bid Rosa good-night, or
look back at her, as she stood blushing and sparkling in confused
childish beauty, in the doorway; but turned his back like any savage,
and hastened home again. Before he entered his own apartments, he
knocked at the door of the green room, and said something to the inmate
there which produced from that personage a growl of restrained defiance.
And after all these fatigues, it was with a sense of relief that the
Curate threw himself upon his sofa, to think over the events of the
afternoon, and to take a little rest. He was very tired, and the
consolation he had experienced during the evening made him more disposed
to yield to his fatigue. He threw himself upon the sofa, and stretched
out