Page:Shirley (1849 Volume 3).djvu/53

 "Shew it, mama. Is it here or at Fieldhead?"

"It is talking to me now, leaning on me: its arms are round me."

"Ah, mama! you mean your teazing daughter, who will never let you alone; who, when you go into your room, cannot help running to seek for you; who follows you up stairs and down, like a dog."

"Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. I half fear your fair looks yet, child."

"You don't; you can't. Mama, I am sorry papa was not good: I do so wish he had been. Wickedness spoils and poisons all pleasant things: it kills love. If you and I thought each other wicked, we could not love each other, could we?"

"And if we could not trust each other, Cary?"

"How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew you, I had an apprehension that you were not good, that I could not esteem you: that dread damped my wish to see you; and now my heart is elate because I find you perfect,—almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mama, put your work down: read to me. I like your southern accent: it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader, mama. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression, or purity of accent."