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young reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, reli-
gionless old woman, writhing in pain and fear, and without
her wig. Picture her to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to
love and pray!
Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable
patience. Nothing escaped her; and, like a prudent steward,
she found a use for everything. She told many a good sto-
ry about Miss Crawley’s illness in after days—stories which
made the lady blush through her artificial carnations. Dur-
ing the illness she was never out of temper; always alert; she
slept light, having a perfectly clear conscience; and could
take that refreshment at almost any minute’s warning. And
so you saw very few traces of fatigue in her appearance. Her
face might be a trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a
little blacker than usual; but whenever she came out from
the sick-room she was always smiling, fresh, and neat, and
looked as trim in her little dressing-gown and cap, as in her
smartest evening suit.
The Captain thought so, and raved about her in uncouth
convulsions. The barbed shaft of love had penetrated his
dull hide. Six weeks— appropinquity—opportunity—had
victimised him completely. He made a confidante of his
aunt at the Rectory, of all persons in the world. She ral-
lied him about it; she had perceived his folly; she warned
him; she finished by owning that little Sharp was the most
clever, droll, odd, good-natured, simple, kindly creature
in England. Rawdon must not trifle with her affections,
though—dear Miss Crawley would never pardon him for
that; for she, too, was quite overcome by the little governess,

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