Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and demolished some spice cake and currant wine in exchange, we met him returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be. He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells which he offered to me, observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers.
It was done as a simple act of good will, without compliment, or remarkable courtesy, or any look that could be construed into "reverential, tender adoration," (vide Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered; it was something that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.
"I was told," said he, "that you were a perfect book-worm, Miss Grey, so completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other pleasure."
"Yes, and it's quite true!" cried Matilda.
"No, Mr. Weston; don't believe it; it's a scandalous libel. These young ladies are too
