She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs to
Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her governess. He
turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door, broke the seal of the
note, and began to read it. It was a flaming love-letter from Mr. Coxe;
who professed himself unable to go on seeing her day after day without
speaking to her of the passion she had inspired--an 'eternal passion,'
he called it; on reading which Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she
not look kindly at him? would she not think of him whose only thought
was of her? and so on, with a very proper admixture of violent
compliments to her beauty. She was fair, not pale; her eyes were
loadstars, her dimples marks of Cupid's finger, &c.

Mr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his own
mind. 'Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical; but, to be
sure, there's a "Shakespeare" in the surgery library: I'll take it away
and put "Johnson's Dictionary" instead. One comfort is the conviction
of her perfect innocence--ignorance, I should rather say--for it is
easy to see it's the first "confession of his love," as he calls it.
But it's an awful worry--to begin with lovers so early. Why, she's only
just seventeen,--not seventeen, indeed, till July; not for six weeks
yet. Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she's quite a baby. To be sure--
poor Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love her! (Mrs. Gibson's name
was Mary, so he must have been referring to someone else.) Then his
thoughts wandered back to other days, though he still held the open
note in his hand. By-and-by his eyes fell upon it again, and his mind
came back to bear upon the present time. 'I'll not be hard upon him.
I'll give him a hint; he is quite sharp enough to take it. Poor laddie!
if I send him away, which would be the wisest course, I do believe,
he's got no home to go to.'