tenacious of her book as she is lax of her needle. Her study is the rug, her seat a foot-stool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs. Pryor's feet—there she always learned her lessons when a child, and old habits have a strong power over her. The tawny and lion-like bulk of Tartar is ever stretched beside her; his negro muzzle laid on his fore paws, straight, strong, and shapely as the limbs of an Alpine wolf. One hand of the mistress generally reposes on the loving serf's rude head, because if she takes it away he groans and is discontented. Shirley's mind is given to her book; she lifts not her eyes; she neither stirs nor speaks: unless, indeed, it be to return a brief respectful answer to Mrs. Pryor, who addresses deprecatory phrases to her now and then.
"My dear, you had better not have that great dog so near you: he is crushing the border of your dress."
"Oh, it is only muslin: I can put a clean one on to-morrow."
"My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting to a table when you read."
"I will try, ma'am, some time; but it is so comfortable to do as one has always been accustomed to do."
"My dear, let me beg of you to put that book down: you are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight."
