the mean time she had spoken to John, and then she had lingered
in the lane at the gate. A summons to luncheon called her in:
she excused herself from the meal, and went up-stairs.

"Is not Shirley coming to luncheon?" asked Isabella: "she
said she was hungry."

An hour after, as she did not quit her chamber, one of her
cousins went to seek her there. She was found sitting at the foot
of the bed, her head resting on her hand: she looked quite pale,
very thoughtful, almost sad.

"You are not ill?" was the question put.

"A little sick," replied Miss Keeldar.

Certainly, she was not a little changed from what she had been
two hours before.

This change, accounted for only by those three words, ex-
plained no otherwise; this change -- whencesoever springing,
effected in a brief ten minutes -- passed like no light summer
cloud. She talked when she joined her friends at dinner, talked
as usual; she remained with them during the evening; when
again questioned respecting her health, she declared herself
perfectly recovered: it had been a mere passing faintness; a
momentary sensation, not worth a thought: yet it was felt there
was a difference in Shirley.

The next day -- the day -- the week -- the fortnight after -- this
new and peculiar shadow lingered on the countenance, in the
manner of Miss Keeldar. A strange quietude settled over her
look, her movements, her very voice. The alteration was not so
marked as to court or permit frequent questioning, yet it was
there, and it would not pass away: it hung over her like a cloud
which no breeze could stir or disperse. Soon it became evident
that to notice this change was to annoy her. First, she shrunk
from remark; and, if persisted in, she, with her own peculiar
hauteur, repelled it. "Was she ill?" The reply came with decision.

"I am not."

"Did anything weigh on her mind? Had anything happened
to affect her spirits?"

She scornfully ridiculed the idea. "What did they mean by

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