||My home, then, when I at last find a home,is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe . / It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth.|
||...a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dogold Carlo, Mr. Rivers pointer... was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in. / "No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel my sisters left for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper."...
We had heard no step on that grass-grown track.... we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed/ "Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognize his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I as at the bottom of the field..."...
A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone, he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot. / ...As she patted the dogs head...I saw a glow rise to [his] face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor movement to the gentle advances made him. / ....He lifted his gaze...from the daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes. / As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. Poor Carlo loves me, said she. He is not stern and distant to his friends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent.