"And there is no doubt the liking is mutual," said Moore: "if she professes friendship, be certain she is sincere: she cannot feign; she scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see you at Hollow's cottage again?"
"I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind."
"Are you much alone now?"
"Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but Miss Keeldar's."
"Have you been quite well lately?"
"Quite."
"You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered;—a little fallen away, and pale. Is your uncle kind to you?"
"Yes; he is just as he always is."
"Not too tender, that is to say; not too protective and attentive. And what ails you, then?—tell me, Lina."
"Nothing, Robert;" but her voice faltered.
"That is to say, nothing that you will tell me: I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to estrange us, is it?"
"I do not know: sometimes I almost fear it is."
"But it ought not to have that effect. 'Should old acquaintance be forgot, and days of lang syne?'"
"Robert, I don't forget."
"It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at the cottage."
