Agnes . some littleboy, who, very likely, would try to escape,and make himself as disagreeable as when she thought of her father^s supposi-tion about Jack Charlton, Beatrices heart closedtight against all charitable ideas. The readersof this histoiy will not, however, think, like SirRoger, that this sentiment was on Jack^s was no more to Miss Trevelyan than anyother Cornish man whom she was civil to whenoccasion required ; nor was it on Rogers account. 256 Agnes, nor from that sense of inconstancy and disregardfor his memory^ which shocked so profoundly thefeelings of
Agnes . some littleboy, who, very likely, would try to escape,and make himself as disagreeable as when she thought of her father^s supposi-tion about Jack Charlton, Beatrices heart closedtight against all charitable ideas. The readersof this histoiy will not, however, think, like SirRoger, that this sentiment was on Jack^s was no more to Miss Trevelyan than anyother Cornish man whom she was civil to whenoccasion required ; nor was it on Rogers account. 256 Agnes, nor from that sense of inconstancy and disregardfor his memory^ which shocked so profoundly thefeelings of little Miss Fox at Windholm; it wasbecause Jack Charlton^ though he was not rich,, wasquite as good a gentleman as Roger Trevelyan^ andwould vindicate his choice^ and place the black-smithes daughter once again in a position superiorto that of her sister-in-law^ who wanted todespise her^ and could not. Naturally, this ideawas quite enough to close up all the modes ofentrance into Miss Trevelyan^s CHAPTER XVII. News. GXES went home, wheu slie hadestablished Xurse Meado^ys iucharge of ]Mrs. StaiiQekl, with asense of weight and ])urden on hermind, which all her efforts conld not shake was a lovely summer evening, just betAveenthe light and the dark, at the moment when allthe tints of the sky are temj^ered, and all thesounds and odoius most softened and of all that she saw around her gave anywarrant to these thoughts. The night air camein her face a little fiesh, perhaps, but withoutgiving her any excuse to conjure up a storm atsea. On the contrary, it was an air, soft anddewy, with the breath of the hawthorn in it fromthe lanes. And yet her heart lay in her breastlike a stone—but that is a poor image; it lay inher breast like a wounded bird, making a suddenflutter now and then against the bars of its cage ; VOL. III. s 258 Aynes. and she could not have given any due reason forthe heaviness that was in her. Perhaps it vrasthinking of the miserable so
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