"The brass, by long attrition tried,
Placed by the purer metal's side,
Displays at length a dingy hue,
That proves its former claim untrue;
So time's discerning hand hath art
To set the good and ill apart."
Lionel's affliction had certainly tended to lessen the gulf which the engagement with Mr.
Faulkner had made between Caroline and Marian. Caroline was very anxious about her
brother, and knowing that Marian had his confidence, was continually coming to her for
reports of his state of mind and spirits, and with despairing questions as to what was
likely to please him,--questions which Marian was quite unqualified to answer, and which
were curious, since she had no tact, and Caroline had a great deal.
Thus it came to pass, that nightly sittings by each other's bed-room fire were renewed,
and long consultations took place, always at first about Lionel, but sometimes branching
to things in general, even as in the olden time. Caroline was, however, very unlike what
she had been a year ago, when as Marian full well remembered, they had first talked of
Mr. Faulkner's visit. She was gayer in public, but her spirits were very low when alone
with Marian; and now and then the conversation flagged, till she sat for full half an hour,
her head on her hand, without a word. At first she would try to excuse such a reverie, by
calling herself very tired; but as days went on, and it recurred, she smiled as she woke
from it, and told Marian "it was such repose to be with a person who would let her be
silent."
There was much confidence in such silence. Marian began to grow even more sorry for
her than at first, because it was impossible to continue to be angry; and tried in every way
to show her kindness, becoming, unconsciously, much more demonstrative in affection
than ever she had been before. On the day on which Lionel received the letter mentioned
at the end of the last chapter, Caroline came into Marian's room at dressing-time; and
after lingering about a little, she said, "Could Lionel read that letter to day?"
Marian shook her head sadly.
"He brought it to you, then?" sighed Caroline, "Ah! I saw who it came from."
She looked wistfully at Marian, as if longing to hear something of the letter, though she
would not ask; and Marian, though much touched, was determined against saying one
word about it, however indifferent, as she felt that, without Lionel's consent, she ought to
be as mute as the paper it was written upon. Caroline paused, then continued, "Do you
think he will ask you to write his answer for him?"
