paces from him. Dorothy caught a glimpse of a countenance radiant
with feeling, and eyes flashing through a watery film of delight;
her own eyes fell; she said, 'Good morning, Richard!' and passed him
without deflecting an inch. The bird of song folded its wings and
called in its shining; the sun lost half his red beams; the
sprinkled seed pearls vanished, and ashes covered the earth; he
folded the paper, laid it in the breast of his doublet, and walked
home through the glittering meadows with a fresh hurt in his heart.

Dorothy's time and thoughts were all but occupied with the nursing
of her mother, who, contrary to the expectation of her friends,
outlived the winter, and revived as the spring drew on. She read
much to her. Some of the best books had drifted into the house and
settled there, but, although English printing was now nearly two
centuries old, they were not many. We must not therefore imagine,
however, that the two ladies were ill supplied with spiritual
pabulum. There are few houses of the present day in which, though
there be ten times as many books, there is so much strong food; if
there was any lack, it was rather of diluents. Amongst those she
read were Queen Elizabeth's Homilies, Hooker's Politie, Donne's
Sermons, and George Herbert's Temple, to the dying lady only less
dear than her New Testament.

But even with this last, it was only through sympathy with her
mother that Dorothy could come into any contact. The gems of the
mind, which alone could catch and reflect such light, lay as yet
under the soil, and much ploughing and breaking of the clods was
needful ere they could come largely to the surface. But happily for
Dorothy, there were amongst the books a few of those precious little
quartos of Shakspere, the first three books of the Faerie Queene,