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NLP Research Group 10

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

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"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

am

How many times the word 'am' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

takin

How many times the word 'takin' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

procession

How many times the word 'procession' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

walk

How many times the word 'walk' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

inexpressible

How many times the word 'inexpressible' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

like

How many times the word 'like' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

felt

How many times the word 'felt' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

trailed

How many times the word 'trailed' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

syrup

How many times the word 'syrup' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

kindle

How many times the word 'kindle' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

resent

How many times the word 'resent' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

wheel

How many times the word 'wheel' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

mountain

How many times the word 'mountain' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

cloth

How many times the word 'cloth' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

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"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

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How many times the word 'descend' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

days

How many times the word 'days' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

turned

How many times the word 'turned' appears in the text?

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. "The 'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help us." Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a scientific experiment.'" "He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his eyes." Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. "He'll be obliged to believe them," he said. "One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete." "We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff. "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England." Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. "Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer." "Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit. CHAPTER XXIV "LET THEM LAUGH" The secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his "creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him. "We'd never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has." When she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen. "All a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless." It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure." So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color several times. "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th' Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him." She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking. "What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained grin. "What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby. Dickon chuckled. "He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th' scent." Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence. "Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun. "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin', if any of, 'em's about." "Th' more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'll plump up for sure." "They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once." Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her. "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th' corners." "Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how they was to manage without orderin' up more food--they felt that empty inside." "They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said. She was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature--and she had never been more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. "Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you." "Nothing disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the fresh air." "Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it." "How she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought there must be something to find out." "I won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance. "You stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you go?" Colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion. "I will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and stared at. You know that!" "You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm--I do not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before." "Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural appetite." "I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven. "You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better." "Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who are not going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm. "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement." "I won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint him if I get worse again--and I may get worse this very night. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I won't have letters written to my father--I won't--I won't! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!" "Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good which has been done." He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient. "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'." "I may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something." He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table--particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--they would look into each other's eyes in desperation. "I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner." But they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment. "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one." "It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window." The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours--went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious fresh milk! "Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think of ways to do things--nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful." He was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he improved upon it. "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme." And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him. This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things. Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king--besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people. Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--as well it might. He tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him the best things of all. "Yesterday," he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed me ever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an' I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How did tha' make tha' muscles stick out that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin' extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an' legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, 'Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a young gentleman that's gettin' well of a long illness an' I wish I knowed some o' them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't say no names an' he didn't ask none. He's friendly same as I said an' he stood up an' showed me good-natured like, an' I imitated what he did till I knowed it by heart." Colin had been listening excitedly. "Can you show me?" he cried. "Will you?" "Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo." "I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic boy in the world!" Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too. From that time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream. "They are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how they look." "Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them. They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves." Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over. "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you have gained--and you have gained amazingly. You ate so well a short time ago." "I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin. Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking. "What is the matter?" said

only

How many times the word 'only' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

ride----

How many times the word 'ride----' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

seemed

How many times the word 'seemed' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

beds

How many times the word 'beds' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

ridden

How many times the word 'ridden' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

apron

How many times the word 'apron' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

gut

How many times the word 'gut' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

miracle

How many times the word 'miracle' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

figure

How many times the word 'figure' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

escorted

How many times the word 'escorted' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

follow

How many times the word 'follow' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

blister

How many times the word 'blister' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

tone

How many times the word 'tone' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

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"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

clean

How many times the word 'clean' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

waiting

How many times the word 'waiting' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

its

How many times the word 'its' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

latter

How many times the word 'latter' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

ears

How many times the word 'ears' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

put

How many times the word 'put' appears in the text?

"The trouble her dear mother has always had has been to keep her from them." Laura glowed with pleasure. Now at least the awful personage would know that she was clever, and loved to learn. But Mrs. Gurley smiled the chilliest thinkable smile of acknowledgment, and did not reply a word. She escorted the other to the front door, and held it open for them to pass out. Then, however, her pretence of affability faded clean away: turning her head just so far that she could look down her nose at her own shoulder, she said: "Follow me!"--in a tone Mother would not have used even to Sarah. Feeling inexpressibly small Laura was about to obey, when a painful thought struck her. "Oh please, I had a box--with my clothes in it!" she cried. "Oh, I hope they haven't forgotten and taken it away again." But she might as well have spoken to the hatstand: Mrs. Gurley had sailed off, and was actually approaching a turn in the hall before Laura made haste to follow her and to keep further anxiety about her box to herself. They went past one staircase, round a bend into shadows as black as if, outside, no sun were shining, and began to ascend another flight of stairs, which was the widest Laura had ever seen. The banisters were as thick as your arm, and on each side of the stair-carpeting the space was broad enough for two to walk abreast: what a splendid game of trains you could have played there! On the other hand the landing windows were so high up that only a giant could have seen out of them. These things occurred to Laura mechanically. What really occupied her, as she trudged behind, was how she could please this hard-faced woman and make her like her, for the desire to please, to be liked by all the world, was the strongest her young soul knew. And there must be a way, for Godmother had found it without difficulty. She took two steps at once, to get nearer to the portly back in front of her. "What a VERY large place this is!" she said in an insinuating voice. She hoped the admiration, thus subtly expressed in the form of surprise, would flatter Mrs. Gurley, as a kind of co-proprietor; but it was evident that it did nothing of the sort: the latter seemed to have gone deaf and dumb, and marched on up the stairs, her hands clasped at her waist, her eyes fixed ahead, like a walking stone-statue. On the top floor she led the way to a room at the end of a long passage. There were four beds in this room, a washhand-stand, a chest of drawers, and a wall cupboard. But at first sight Laura had eyes only for the familiar object that stood at the foot of one of the beds. "Oh, THERE'S my box!" she cried, "Someone must have brought it up." It was unroped; she had simply to hand over the key. Mrs. Gurley went down on her knees before it, opened the lid, and began to pass the contents to Laura, directing her where to lay and hang them. Overawed by such complaisance, Laura moved nimbly about the room shaking and unfolding, taking care to be back at the box to the minute so as not to keep Mrs. Gurley waiting. And her promptness was rewarded; the stern face seemed to relax. At the mere hint of this, Laura grew warm through and through; and as she could neither control her feelings nor keep them to herself, she rushed to an extreme and overshot the mark. "I've got an apron like that. I think they're so pretty," she said cordially, pointing to the one Mrs. Gurley wore. The latter abruptly stopped her work, and, resting her hands on the sides of the box, gave Laura one of the dreaded looks over her glasses, looked at her from top to toe, and as though she were only now beginning to see her. There was a pause, a momentary suspension of the breath, which Laura soon learned to expect before a rebuke. "Little gels," said Mrs. Gurley--and even in the midst of her confusion Laura could not but be struck by the pronunciation of this word. "Little gels--are required--to wear white aprons when they come here!"--a break after each few words, as well as an emphatic head-shake, accentuated their severity. "And I should like to know, if your mother, has never taught you, that it is very rude, to point, and also to remark, on what people wear." Laura went scarlet: if there was one thing she, Mother all of them prided themselves on, it was the good manners that had been instilled into them since their infancy.--The rough reproof seemed to scorch her. She went to and fro more timidly than before. Then, however, something happened which held a ray of hope. "Why, what is this?" asked Mrs. Gurley freezingly, and held up to view--with the tips of her fingers, Laura thought--a small, black Prayer Book. "Pray, are you not a dissenter?"--For the College was nonconformist. "Well ... no, I'm not," said Laura, in a tone of intense apology. Here, at last, was her chance. "But it really doesn't matter a bit. I can go to another church quite well. I even think I'd rather. For a change. And the service isn't so long, at least so I've heard--except the sermon," she added truthfully. Had she denied religion altogether, the look Mrs. Gurley bent on her could not have been more annihilating. "There is--unfortunately!--no occasion, for you to do anything of the kind," she retorted. "I myself, am an Episcopalian, and I expect those gels, who belong to the Church of England, to attend it, with me." The unpacking at an end, Mrs. Gurley rose, smoothed down her apron, and was just on the point of turning away, when on the bed opposite Laura's she espied an under-garment, lying wantonly across the counterpane. At this blot on the orderliness of the room she seemed to swell like a turkey-cock, seemed literally to grow before Laura's eyes as, striding to the door, she commanded an invisible some one to send Lilith Gordon to her "DI-rectly!"! There was an awful pause; Laura did not dare to raise her head; she even said a little prayer. Mrs. Gurley stood working at her chain, and tapping her foot--like a beast waiting for its prey, thought the child. And at last a hurried step was heard in the corridor, the door opened and a girl came in, high-coloured and scant of breath. Laura darted one glance at Mrs. Gurley's face, then looked away and studied the pattern of a quilt, trying not to hear what was said. Her throat swelled, grew hard and dry with pity for the culprit. But Lilith Gordon--a girl with sandy eyebrows, a turned-up nose, a thick plait of red-gold hair, and a figure so fully developed that Laura mentally dubbed it a "lady's figure", and put its owner down for years older than herself--Lilith Gordon neither fell on her knees nor sank through the floor. Her lashes were lowered, in a kind of dog-like submission, and her face had gone very red when Laura ventured to look at her again; but that was all. And Mrs. Gurley having swept Jove-like from the room, this bold girl actually set her finger to her nose and muttered: "Old Brimstone Beast!" As she passed Laura, too, she put out her tongue and said: "Now then, goggle-eyes, what have you got to stare at?" Laura was deeply hurt: she had gazed at Lilith out of the purest sympathy. And now, as she stood waiting for Mrs. Gurley, who seemed to have forgotten her, the strangeness of things, and the general unfriendliness of the people struck home with full force. The late afternoon sun was shining in, in an unfamiliar way; outside were strange streets, strange noises, a strange white dust, the expanse of a big, strange city. She felt unspeakably far away now, from the small, snug domain of home. Here, nobody wanted her ... she was alone among strangers, who did not even like her ... she had already, without meaning it, offended two of them. Another second, and the shameful tears might have found their way out. But at this moment there was a kind of preparatory boom in the distance, and the next, a great bell clanged through the house, pealing on and on, long after one's ears were rasped by the din. It was followed by an exodus from the rooms round about; there was a sound of voices and of feet. Mrs. Gurley ceased to give orders in the passage, and returning, bade Laura put on a pinafore and follow her. They descended the broad staircase. At a door just at the foot, Mrs. Gurley paused and smoothed her already faultless bands of hair; then turned the handle and opened the door, with the majestic swing Laura had that day once before observed. V. Fifty-five heads turned as if by clockwork, and fifty-five pairs of eyes were levelled at the small girl in the white apron who meekly followed Mrs. Gurley down the length of the dining-room. Laura crimsoned under the unexpected ordeal, and tried to fix her attention on the flouncing of Mrs. Gurley's dress. The room seemed hundreds of feet long, and not a single person at the tea-tables but took stock of her. The girls made no scruple of leaning backwards and forwards, behind and before their neighbours, in order to see her better, and even the governesses were not above having a look. All were standing. On Mrs. Gurley assigning Laura a place at her own right hand, Laura covered herself with confusion by taking her seat at once, before grace had been said, and before the fifty-five had drawn in their chairs with the noise of a cavalry brigade on charge. She stood up again immediately, but it was too late; an audible titter whizzed round the table: the new girl had sat down. For minutes after, Laura was lost in the pattern on her plate; and not till tongues were loosened and dishes being passed, did she venture to steal a glance round. There were four tables, with a governess at the head and foot of each to pour out tea. It was more of a hall than a room and had high, church-like windows down one side. At both ends were scores of pigeon-holes. There was a piano in it and a fireplace; it had [P.45] pale blue walls, and only strips of carpet on the floor. At present it was darkish, for the windows did not catch the sun. Laura was roused by a voice at her side; turning, she found her neighbour offering her a plate of bread. "No, thank you," she said impulsively; for the bread was cut in chunks, and did not look inviting. But the girl nudged her on the sly. "You'd better take some," she whispered. Laura then saw that there was nothing else. But she saw, too, the smiles and signs that again flew round: the new girl had said no. Humbly she accepted the butter and the cup of tea which were passed to her in turn, and as humbly ate the piece of rather stale bread. She felt forlornly miserable under the fire of all these unkind eyes, which took a delight in marking her slips: at the smallest further mischance she might disgrace herself by bursting out crying. Just at this moment, however, something impelled her to look up. Her vis-a-vis, whom she had as yet scarcely noticed, was staring hard. And now, to her great surprise, this girl winked at her, winked slowly and deliberately with the right eye. Laura was so discomposed that she looked away again at once, and some seconds elapsed before she was brave enough to take another peep. The wink was repeated. It was a black-haired girl this time, a girl with small blue eyes, a pale, freckled skin, and large white teeth. What most impressed Laura, though, was her extraordinary gravity: she chewed away with a face as solemn as a parson's; and then just when you were least expecting it, came the wink. Laura was fascinated: she lay in wait for it beforehand and was doubtful whether to feel offended by it or to laugh at it. But at least it made her forget her mishaps, and did away with the temptation to cry. When, however, Mrs. Gurley had given the signal, and the fifty-five had pushed back their chairs and set them to the table again with the same racket as before, Laura's position was a painful one. Everybody pushed, and talked, and laughed, in a hurry to leave the hall, and no one took any notice of her except to stare. After some indecision, she followed the rest through a door. Here she found herself on a verandah facing the grounds of the school. There was a long bench, on which several people were sitting: she took a modest seat at one end. Two of the younger governesses looked at her and laughed, and made a remark. She saw her room-mate, Lilith Gordon, arm in arm with a couple of companions. The winker of the tea-table turned out to be a girl of her own age, but of a broader make; she had fat legs, which were encased in thickly-ribbed black stockings. As she passed the bench she left the friend she was with, to come up to Laura and dig her in the ribs. "DIDN'T she like her bread and butter, poor little thing?" she said. Laura shrank from the dig, which was rough; but she could not help smiling shyly at the girl, who looked good-natured. If only she had stayed and talked to her! But she was off and away, her arm round a comrade's neck. Besides herself, there was now only an elderly governess left, who was reading. She, Laura, in her solitude, was conspicuous to every eye. But at this juncture up came two rather rollicking older girls, one of whom was fair, with a red complexion. AS soon as their loud voices had driven the governess away, the smaller of the two, who had a pronounced squint, turned to Laura. "Hullo, you kid," she said, "what's YOUR name?" Laura artlessly replied. She was dumbfounded by the storm of merriment that followed. Maria Morell, the fat girl, went purple, and had to be thumped on the back by her friend. "Oh, my!" she gasped, when she had got her breath. "Oh, my ... hold me, some one, or I shall split! Oh, golly! Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham--Laura ... Tweedle ... Rambotham! ..." her voice tailed off again. "Gosh! Was there ever such a name?" She laughed till she could laugh no more, rocking backwards and forwards and from side to side; while her companion proceeded to make further inquiries. "Where do you come from?" the squint demanded of Laura, in a business-like way. Laura named the township, quaveringly. "What's your father?" "He's dead," answered the child. "Well, but I suppose he was alive once wasn't he, duffer? What was he before he was dead?" "A barrister." "What did he die of?" "Consumption." "How many servants do you keep?" "One." "How much have you got a year?" "I don't know." "How old are you?" "Twelve and a quarter." "Who made your dress?" "Mother." "Oh, I say, hang it, that's enough. Stop teasing the kid," said Maria Morell, when the laughter caused by the last admission had died away. But the squint spied a friend, ran to her, and there was a great deal of whispering and sniggering. Presently the pair came sauntering up and sat down; and after some artificial humming and hawing the newcomer began to talk, in a loud and fussy manner, about certain acquaintances of hers called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Both the fat girl and the squint "split" with laughter. Laura sat with her hands locked one inside the other; there was no escape for her, for she did not know where to go. But when the third girl put the regulation question: "What's your name and what's your father?" she turned on her, with the courage of despair. "What's yours?" she retorted hotly, at the same time not at all sure how the big girl might revenge herself. To her relief, the others burst out laughing at their friend's bafflement. "That's one for you, Kate Horner," said Maria with a chuckle. "Not bad for the kid.--Come on, Kid, will you have a walk round the garden?" "Oh yes, PLEASE," said Laura, reddening with pleasure; and there she was, arm in arm with her fat saviour, promenading the grounds like any other of the fifty-five. She assumed, as well as she could, an air of feeling at her ease even in the presence of the cold and curious looks that met her. The fat girl was protective, and Laura felt too grateful to her to take it amiss that every now and then she threw back her head and laughed anew, at the remembrance of Laura's patronymics; or that she still exchanged jokes about them with the other couple, when they met. But by this time half an hour had slipped away, and the girls were fast disappearing. Maria Morell loitered till the last minute, then said, she, too, must be off to 'stew'. Every one was hastening across the verandah laden with books, and disappearing down a corridor. Left alone, Laura made her way back to the dining-hall. Here some of the very young boarders were preparing their lessons, watched over by a junior governess. Laura lingered for a little, to see if no order were forthcoming, then diffidently approached the table and asked the governess if she would please tell her what to do. "I'm sure I don't know," answered that lady, disinclined for responsibility. "You'd better ask Miss Chapman. Here, Maggie, show her where the study is." Laura followed the little girl over the verandah and down the corridor. At the end, the child pointed to a door, and on opening this Laura found herself in a very large brightly lighted room, where the boarders sat at two long tables with their books before them. Every head was raised at her entrance. In great embarrassment, she threaded her way to the more authoritative-looking of the governesses in charge, and proffered her request. It was not understood, and she had to repeat it. "I'm sure I don't know," said Miss Day in her turn: she had stiff, black, wavy hair, a vivid colour, and a big, thick nose which made her profile resemble that of a horse. "Can't you twiddle your thumbs for a bit?--Oh well, if you're so desperately anxious for an occupation, you'd better ask Miss Chapman." The girls in the immediate neighbourhood laughed noiselessly, in a bounden-duty kind of way, at their superior's pleasantry, and Laura, feeling as though she had been hit, crossed to the other table. Miss Chapman, the head governess, was neither so hard-looking nor so brilliant as Miss Day. She even eyed Laura somewhat uneasily, meanwhile toying with a long gold chain, after the manner of the Lady Superintendent. "Didn't Mrs. Gurley tell you what to do?" she queried. "I should think it likely she would. Oh well, if she didn't, I suppose you'd better bring your things downstairs. Yes ... and ask Miss Zielinski to give you a shelf." Miss Zielinski--she was the governess in the dining-hall--said: "Oh, very well," in the rather whiny voice that seemed natural to her, and went on reading. "Please, I don't think I know my way," ventured Laura. "Follow your nose and you'll find it!" said Miss Zielinski without looking up, and was forthwith wrapt in her novel again. Once more Laura climbed the wide staircase: it was but dimly lighted, and the passages were in darkness. After a few false moves she found her room, saw that her box had been taken away, her books left lying [P.51] on a chair. But instead of picking them up, she threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She did not dare to cry, for fear of making her eyes red, but she hugged the cool linen to her cheeks. "I hate them all," she said passionately, speaking aloud to herself. "Oh, HOW I hate them!"--and wild schemes of vengeance flashed through her young mind. She did not even halt at poison or the knife: a big cake, sent by Mother, of which she invited all alike to partake, and into which she inserted a fatal poison, so that the whole school died like rabbits; or a nightly stabbing, a creeping from bed to bed in the dark, her penknife open in her hand... But she had not lain thus for more than a very few minutes when steps came along the passage; and she had only just time to spring to her feet before one of the little girls appeared at the door. "You're to come down at once." "Don't you know you're not ALLOWED to stay upstairs?" asked Miss Zielinski crossly. "What were you doing?" And as Laura did not reply: "What was she doing, Jessie?" "I don't know," said the child. "She was just standing there." And all the little girls laughed, after the manner of their elders. Before Laura had finished arranging her belongings on the shelves that were assigned to her, some of the older girls began to drop in from the study. One unceremoniously turned over her books, which were lying on the table. "Let's see what the kid's got." Now Laura was proud of her collection: it really made a great show; for a daughter of Godmother's had once attended the College, and her equipment had been handed down to Laura. "Why, you don't mean to say a kid like you's in the Second Principia already?" said a big girl, and held up, incredulously, Smith's black and red boards. "Wherever did YOU learn Latin?" In the reediest of voices Laura was forced to confess that she had never learnt Latin at all. The girl eyed her in dubious amaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh, I say!" she called to a friend. "Here's a rum go. Here's this kid brings the Second Principia with her and doesn't know the First." Several others crowded round; and all found this divergence from the norm, from the traditional method of purchasing each book new and as it was needed, highly ridiculous. Laura, on her knees before her shelf, pretended to be busy; but she could not see what she was doing, for the mist that gathered in her eyes. Just at this moment, however, in marched Maria Morell. "Here, I say, stop that!" she cried. "You're teasing that kid again. I won't have it. Here, come on, Kid--Laura Tweedledum come and sit by me for supper." For the second time, Laura was thankful to the fat girl. But as ill-luck would have it, Miss Chapman chanced to let her eyes stray in their direction; and having fingered her chain indecisively for a little, said: "It seems a pity, doesn't it, Miss Day, that that nice little girl should get in with that vulgar set?" Miss Chapman liked to have her opinions confirmed. But this was a weakness Miss Day did not pamper; herself strong-minded, she could afford to disregard Miss Chapman's foibles. So she went on with her book, and ignored the question. But Miss Zielinski, who lost no opportunity of making herself agreeable to those over her, said with foreign emphasis: "Yes, indeed it does." So Laura was summoned and made to sit down at the end of the room, close to the governesses and beside the very big girls--girls of eighteen and nineteen, who seemed older still to her, with their figures, and waists, and skirts that touched the ground. Instinctively she felt that they resented her proximity. The biggest of all, a pleasant-faced girl with a kind smile, said on seeing her downcast air: "Poor little thing! Never mind." But when they talked among themselves they lowered their voices and cast stealthy glances at her, to see if she were listening. Supper over, three chairs were set out in an exposed position; the big bell in the passage was lightly touched; everyone fetched a hymn-book, one with music in it being handed to Miss Chapman at the piano. The door opened to admit first Mrs. Gurley, then the Principal and his wife--a tall, fair gentleman in a long coat, and a sweet-faced lady, who wore a rose in her velvet dress. "Let us sing in the hundred and fifty-seventh hymn," said the gentleman, who had a Grecian profile and a drooping, sandy moustache; and when Miss Chapman had played through the tune, the fifty-five, the governesses, the lady and gentleman rose to their feet and sang, with halting emphasis, of the Redeemer and His mercy, to Miss Chapman's accompaniment, which was as indecisive as her manner, the left hand dragging lamely along after the right. "Let us read in the third chapter of the Second Epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians." Everyone laid her hymn-book on the table and sat down to listen to Paul's words, which the sandy gentleman read to a continual nervous movement of the left leg. "Let us pray." Obeying the word, the fifty-five rose, faced about, and knelt to their chairs. It was an extempore prayer, and a long one, and Laura did not hear much of it; for the two big girls on her right kept up throughout a running conversation. Also, when it was about half over she was startled to hear Miss Zielinski say, in a shrill whisper: "Heavens! There's that mouse again," and audibly draw her skirts round her. Even Miss Chapman, praying to her piano-chair some distance off, had heard, and turned her head to frown rebuke. The prayer at an end, Mr. and Mrs. Strachey bowed vaguely in several directions, shook hands with the governesses, and left the room. This was the signal for two of the teachers to advance with open Bibles. "Here, little one, have you learned your verse?" whispered Laura's pleasant neighbour. Laura knew nothing of it; but the big girl lent her a Bible, and, since it was not a hard verse and every girl repeated it, it was quickly learned. I WISDOM DWELL WITH PRUDENCE AND FIND OUT KNOWLEDGE OF WITTY INVENTIONS. Told off in batches, they filed up the stairs. On the first landing stood Miss Day, watching with lynx-eyes to see that no books or eatables were smuggled to the bedrooms. In a strident voice she exhorted the noisy to silence, and the loiterers to haste. Laura sped to her room. She was fortunate enough to find it still empty. Tossing off her clothes, she gabbled ardently through her own prayers, drew the blankets up over her head, and pretended to be asleep. Soon the lights were out and all was quiet. Then, with her face burrowed deep, so that not a sound could escape, she gave free play to her tears. VI. MY DEAR MOTHER I SENT YOU A POSTCARD DID YOU GET IT. I TOLD YOU I GOT HERE ALL RIGHT AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH. I COULD NOT WRITE A LONG LETTER BEFORE I HAD NO TIME AND WE ARE ONLY ALOWED TO WRITE LETTERS TWO EVENINGS A WEEK TUESDAY AND FRIDAY. WHEN WE HAVE DONE OUR LESSONS FOR NEXT DAY WE SAY PLEASE MAY I WRITE NOW AND MISS CHAPMAN SAYS HAVE YOU DONE EVERYTHING AND IF WE SAY WE HAVE SHE SAYS YES AND IF YOU SIT AT MISS DAYS TABLE MISS DAY SAYS IT. AND SOMETIMES WE HAVEN'T BUT WE SAY SO. I SIT UP BY MISS CHAPMAN AND SHE CAN SEE EVERYTHING I DO AND AT TEA AND DINNER AND BREAKFAST I SIT BESIDE MRS. GURLEY. ANOTHER GIRL IN MY CLASS SITS OPPOSITE AND ONE SITS BESIDE ME AND WE WOULD RATHER SIT SOMEWHERE ELSE. I DON'T CARE FOR MRS. GURLEY MUCH SHE IS VERY FAT AND NEVER SMILES AND NEVER LISTENS TO WHAT YOU SAY UNLESS SHE SCOLDS YOU AND I THINK MISS CHAPMAN IS AFRAID OF HER TO. MISS DAY IS NOT AFRAID OF ANYBODY. I AM IN THE FIRST CLASS. I AM IN THE COLLEGE AND UNDER THAT IS THE SCHOOL. ONLY VERY LITTLE GIRLS ARE IN THE SCHOOL THEY GO TO BED AT HALF PAST EIGHT AND DO THEIR LESSONS IN THE DINING HALL. I DO MINE IN THE STUDY AND GO TO BED WITH THE BIG GIRLS. THEY WEAR DRESSES DOWN TO THE GROUND. LILITH GORDON IS A GIRL IN MY CLASS SHE IS IN MY ROOM TO SHE IS ONLY AS OLD AS ME AND SHE WEARS STAYS AND HAS A BEAUTIFUL FIGGURE. ALL THE GIRLS WEAR STAYS. PLEASE SEND ME SOME I HAVE NO WASTE. A GOVERNESS SLEEPS IN OUR ROOM AND SHE HAS NO TEETH. SHE TAKES THEM OUT EVERY NIGHT AND PUTS THEM IN WATER WHEN THE LIGHT IS OUT. LILITH GORDON AND THE OTHER GIRL SAY GOODNIGHT TO HER AFTER SHE HAS TAKEN THEM OFF THEN SHE CANT TALK PROPPERLY AND WE WANT TO HEAR HER. I THINK SHE KNOWS FOR SHE IS VERY CROSS. I DON'T LEARN LATIN YET TILL I GO INTO THE SECOND CLASS MY SUMS ARE VERY HARD. FOR SUPPER THERE IS ONLY BREAD AND BUTTER AND WATER IF WE DON'T HAVE CAKE AND JAM OF OUR OWN. PLEASE SEND ME SOME STRAWBERRY JAM AND ANOTHER CAKE. TELL SARAH THERE ARE THREE SERVANTS TO WAIT AT DINNER THEY HAVE WHITE APRONS AND A CAP ON THEIR HEADS. THEY SAY WILL YOU TAKE BEEF MISS

broad

How many times the word 'broad' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

braids

How many times the word 'braids' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

god

How many times the word 'god' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

permanent

How many times the word 'permanent' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

battle

How many times the word 'battle' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

someone

How many times the word 'someone' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

urchin

How many times the word 'urchin' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

paunch

How many times the word 'paunch' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

sits

How many times the word 'sits' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

tinsel

How many times the word 'tinsel' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

foresaw

How many times the word 'foresaw' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

sorrowful

How many times the word 'sorrowful' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

shrew

How many times the word 'shrew' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

epithet

How many times the word 'epithet' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

venerable

How many times the word 'venerable' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

idea

How many times the word 'idea' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

doubtfully

How many times the word 'doubtfully' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

grander

How many times the word 'grander' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

geographical

How many times the word 'geographical' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

c.

How many times the word 'c.' appears in the text?

"twilight groves," _Il Pens._ 133; "twilight ranks," _Arc._ 99; _Hymn Nat._ 188. 845. ~Helping all urchin blasts~, remedying or preventing the blighting influence of evil spirits. 'Urchin blasts' is probably here used generally for what in _Arcades_, 49-53, are called "noisome winds and blasting vapours chill," 'urchin' being common in the sense of 'goblin' (_M. W. of W._ iv. 4. 49). Strictly the word denotes the hedgehog, which for various reasons was popularly regarded with great dread, and hence mischievous spirits were supposed to assume its form: comp. Shakespeare, _Temp_, i. 2. 326, ii. 2. 5, "Fright me with _urchin_-shows"; _Titus And._ ii. 3. 101; _Macbeth_, iv. 1. 2, "Thrice and once the _hedge-pig_ whined," etc. Compare the protecting duties of the Genius in _Arcades_. ~Helping~: comp. the phrases, "I cannot _help_ it," _i.e._ prevent it; "it cannot be _helped_," _i.e._ remedied, etc. 846. ~shrewd~. Here used in its radical sense = _shrew-ed_, malicious, like a shrew. Comp. _M. N. D._ ii. 1, "That _shrewd_ and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow." Chaucer has the verb _shrew_ = to curse; the current verb is _beshrew_. 847. ~vialed~, contained in _phials_. 850. ~garland wreaths~. A garland is a wreath, but we may take the phrase to mean 'wreathed garlands': comp. "twisted braids," l. 862. 852. ~old swain~, _i.e._ Meliboeus (l. 862). "But neither Geoffrey of Monmouth nor Spenser has the development of the legend" (Masson). 853. ~clasping charm~: see l. 613, 660. 854. ~warbled song~: comp. _Arc._ 87, "touch the _warbled_ string"; _Son._ xx. 12, "_Warble_ immortal notes." 857. ~This will I try~, _i.e._ to invoke her rightly in song. 858. ~adjuring~, charging by something sacred and venerable. The adjuration is contained in lines 867-889, which, in Milton's MS., are directed "to be said," not sung, and in the Bridgewater MS. "to sing or not." From the latter MS. it would appear that these lines were sung as a kind of trio by Lawes and the two brothers. 863. ~amber-dropping~: see note, l. 333; and comp. l. 106, where the idea is similar, warranting us in taking 'amber-dropping' as a compound epithet = dropping amber, and not (as some read) 'amber' and 'dropping.' _Amber_ conveys the ideas of luminous clearness and fragrance: see _Sams. Agon._ 720, "_amber_ scent of odorous perfume." 865. ~silver lake~, the Severn. Virgil has the Lat. _lacus_ in the sense of 'a river.' 868. ~great Oceanus~, Gk. . The early Greeks regarded the earth as a flat disc, surrounded by a perpetually flowing river called Oceanus: the god of this river was also called Oceanus, and afterwards the name was applied to the Atlantic. Hesiod, Drayton, and Jonson have all applied the epithet 'great' to the god Oceanus; in fact, throughout these lines Milton uses what may be called the "permanent epithets" of the various divinities. 869. ~earth-shaking Neptune's mace~, _i.e._ the trident of Poseidon (Neptune). Homer calls him = earth-shaking: comp. _Iliad_, xii. 27, "And the Shaker of the Earth with his trident in his hands," etc. In _Par. Lost_, x. 294, Milton provides Death with a "mace petrifick." 870. ~Tethys' ... pace~. Tethys, wife of Oceanus, their children being the Oceanides and river-gods. In Hesiod she is 'the venerable' ( ), and in Ovid 'the hoary.' 871. ~hoary Nereus~: see note, l. 835. 872. ~Carpathian wizard's hook~. See Virgil's _Georg._ iv. 387, "In the sea-god's Carpathian gulf there lives a seer, Proteus, of the sea's own hue ... all things are known to him, those which are, those which have been, and those which drag their length through the advancing future." _Wizard_ = diviner, without the depreciatory sense of line 571; see note there. _Hook_: Proteus had a shepherd's hook, because he tended "the monstrous herds of loathly sea-calves": _Odyssey_, iv. 385-463. 873. ~scaly Triton's ... shell~. In _Lycidas_, 89, he is "the Herald of the Sea." He bore a 'wreathed horn' or shell which he blew at the command of Neptune in order to still the restless waves of the sea. He was 'scaly,' the lower part of his body being like that of a fish. 874. ~soothsaying Glaucus~. He was a Boeotian fisherman who had been changed into a marine deity, and was regarded by fishermen and sailors as a soothsayer or oracle: see note, l. 823. 875. ~Leucothea~: lit. "the white goddess" (Gk. , ), the name by which Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, was worshipped after she had thrown herself into the sea to avoid her enraged husband Athamas. 876. ~her son~, _i.e._ Melisertes, drowned and deified along with his mother: as a sea-deity he was called Palaemon, identified by the Romans with their god of harbours, Portumnus. 877. ~tinsel-slippered~. The 'permanent epithet' of Thetis, a daughter of Nereus and mother of Achilles, is "silver-footed" (Gk. ). Comp. _Neptune's Triumph_ (Jonson): "And all the silver-footed nymphs were drest To wait upon him, to the Ocean's feast." 'Tinsel-slippered' is a paraphrase of this, for 'tinsel' is a cloth worked with silver (or gold): the notion of cheap finery is not radical. Etymologically, _tinsel_ is that which glitters or _scintillates_. On the beauty of this epithet, and of Milton's compound epithets generally, see Trench, _English Past and Present_, p. 296. 878-80. ~Sirens ... Parthenop 's ... Ligea's~. The three Sirens (see note, l. 253) were Parthenop , Lig a, and Lucosia. The tomb of the first was at Naples (see Milton's _Ad Leonaram_, iii., "Credula quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli, jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Achel iados," etc.). Ligea, described by Virgil (_Georg._ iv. 336) as a sea-nymph, is here represented as seated, like a mermaid, in the act of smoothing her hair with a golden comb. 881. ~Wherewith~ = with which. The true adjective clause is "sleeking ... locks" = with which she sleeks, etc.; and the true participial clause is "she sits ... rocks" = seated on ... rocks. 882. ~Sleeking~, making sleek or glossy. The original sense of 'sleek' is greasy: comp. _Lyc._ 99, "On the level brine _Sleek_ Panop with all her sisters played." 885. ~heave~, raise. Comp. the similar use of the word in _L'Alleg._ 145, "Orpheus' self may heave his head." 887. ~bridle in~, _i.e._ restrain. 888. ~have~: subjunctive after _till_, as frequently in Milton. 890. ~rushy-fring d~, fringed with rushes. The more usual form would be rush-fringed: we may regard Milton's form as a participle formed from the compound noun "rushy-fringe": comp. 'blue-haired,' l. 29; "false-played," Shakespeare, _A. and C._ iv. 14. 891. ~grows~. A singular with two nominatives connected by _and_: the verb is to be taken with each. But the compound subject is really equivalent to "the willow with its osiers dank," osiers being water-willows or their branches. ~dank~, damp: comp. _Par. Lost_, vii. 441, "oft they quit the _dank_" (= the water). 893. ~Thick set~, etc., _i.e._ thickly inlaid with agate and beautified with the azure sheen of turquoise, etc. There is a zeugma in _set_. ~azurn sheen~. Sheen = brightness: it occurs again in l. 1003; see note there. 'Azurn': modern English has a tendency to use the noun itself as an adjective in cases where older English used an adjective with the suffix _-en_ = made of. Most of the adjectives in _-en_ that still survive do not now denote "made of," but simply "like," _e.g._ golden hair, etc. _Azurn_ and _cedarn_ (l. 990), _hornen_, _treen_, _corden_, _glassen_, _reeden_, etc., are practically obsolete; see Trench, _English Past and Present_. Comp. 'oaten' (_Lyc._ 33), 'oaken' (_Arc._ 45). As the words 'azurn' and 'cedarn' are peculiar to Milton some hold that he adopted them from the Italian _azzurino_ and _cedrino_. 894. ~turkis~; also spelt turkoise, turquois, and turquoise: lit. 'the Turkish stone,' a Persian gem so called because it came through Turkey (Pers. _turk_, a Turk). 895. ~That ... strays~. Milton does not imply that these stones were found in the Severn, nor does he in lines 932-937 imply that cinnamon grows on its banks. 897. ~printless feet~. Comp. _Temp._ v. i. 34: "Ye that on the sands with _printless foot_ Do chase the ebbing Neptune"; also _Arc._ 85: "Where no print of step hath been." 902. It will be noticed that the Spirit takes up the rhymes of Sabrina's song ('here,' 'dear'; 'request,' 'distressed'), and again Sabrina continues the rhymes of the Spirit's song ('distressed,' 'best'). 913. ~of precious cure~, of curative power. See note on this use of 'of,' l. 155. 914. References to the efficacy of sprinkling are frequent, _e.g._ in the English Bible, in Spenser, in Virgil (_Aen._ vi. 229), in Ovid (_Met._ iv. 479), in _Par. Lost_, xi. 416. 916. ~Next~: an adverb modifying 'touch.' 917. ~glutinous~, sticky, viscous. The epithet is transferred from the effect to the cause. 921. ~Amphitrite~: the wife of Neptune (Poseidon) and goddess of the Sea. 923. ~Anchises line~: see note, l. 827. Locrine was the son of Brutus, who was the son of Silvius, who was the grandson of the great Aeneas, who was the son of old Anchises. 924. ~may ... miss~. This verb is optative: so are '(may) scorch,' '(may) fill,' 'may roll,' and 'may be crowned.' 925. ~brimm d~. The passive participle is so often used where we now use the active that 'brimmed' may mean 'brimming' = full to the brim. On the other hand, 'brim' is frequent in the sense of _bank_ (comp. l. 119), so that some regard 'brimmed' as = enclosed within banks. 928. ~sing d~, scorched. We should rather say 'scorching.' On the good wishes expressed in lines 924-937 Masson's comment is: "The whole of this poetic blessing on the Severn and its neighbourhood, involving the wish of what we should call 'solid commercial prosperity,' would go to the heart of the assemblage at Ludlow." 933. ~beryl~: in the Bible (_Rev._ xxi. 20) this precious stone forms one of the foundations of the New Jerusalem. The word is of Eastern origin: comp. Arab, _billaur_, crystal. ~golden ore~. As a matter of fact gold has been found in the Welsh mountains. 934. ~May thy lofty head~, etc. The grammatical construction is: 'May thy lofty head be crowned round with many a tower and terrace, and here and there (may thy lofty head be crowned) with groves of myrrh and cinnamon (growing) upon thy banks.' This makes 'banks' objective, and 'upon' a preposition: the only objection to this reading is that the notion of crowning the head upon the banks is peculiar. The difficulty vanishes when we recollect that Milton frequently connects two clauses with one subject rather loosely: the subject of the second clause is 'thou,' implied in 'thy lofty head.' An exact parallel to this is found in _L'Alleg._ 121, 122: 'whose bright eyes rain influence and _judge_ the prize'; also in _Il Pens._ 155-7; 'let my due feet never fail to _walk ... and love_, etc.': also in _Lyc._ 88, 89. The explanation adopted by Prof. Masson is that Milton had in view two Greek verbs-- , 'to put a crown round,' and , "to put a crown upon": thus, "May thy lofty head be _crowned round_ with many a tower and terrace, and thy banks here and there be _crowned upon_ with groves of myrrh and cinnamon." This makes 'banks' nominative, and 'upon' an adverb. In the Bridgewater MS. the stage direction here is, _Song ends_. 942. ~Not a waste~, etc., _i.e._ 'Let there not be a superfluous or unnecessary sound until we come.' 'waste' is an attributive: see note, l. 728. 945. ~gloomy covert wide~: see note, l. 207. 946. ~not many furlongs~. These words are deliberately inserted to keep up the illusion. It is probable that, in the actual representation of the mask, the scene representing the enchanted palace was removed when Comus's rout was driven off the stage, and a woodland scene redisplayed. This would give additional significance to these lines and to the change of scene after l. 957. 'Furlong' = furrow-long: it thus came to mean the length of a field, and is now a measure of length. 949. ~many a friend~. 'Many a' is a peculiar idiom, which has been explained in different ways. One view is that 'many' is a corruption of the French _mesnie_, a train or company, and 'a' a corruption of the preposition 'of,' the singular noun being then substituted for the plural through confusion of the preposition with the article. A more correct view seems to be that 'many' is the A.S. _manig_, which was in old English used with a singular noun and without the article, _e.g._ _manig mann_ = many men. In the thirteenth century the indefinite article began to be inserted; thus _mony enne thing_ = many a thing, just as we say 'what _a_ thing,' 'such _a_ thing.' This would seem to show that 'a' is not a corruption of 'of,' and that there is no connection with the French word _mesnie_. Milton, in this passage, uses 'many a friend' with a plural verb. ~gratulate~. The simple verb is now replaced by the compound _congratulate_ (Lat. _gratulari_, to wish joy to a person). 950. ~wished~, _i.e._ wished for; see note, l. 574. ~and beside~, _i.e._ 'and where, besides,' etc. 952. ~jigs~, lively dances. 958. ~Back, shepherds, back!~ On the rising of the curtain, the stage is occupied by peasants engaged in a merry dance. Soon after the attendant Spirit enters with the above words. ~Enough your play~, _i.e._ we have had enough of your dancing, which must now give way to 'other trippings.' 959. ~sunshine holiday~. Comp. _L'Alleg._ 98, where the same expression is used. There is a close resemblance between the language of this song and lines 91-99 of _L'Allegro_. Milton's own spelling of 'holiday' is 'holyday,' which shows the origin of the word. The accent in such compounds (comp. blue-bell, blackbird, etc.) falls on the adjective: it is only in this way that the ear can tell whether the compound forms (_e.g._ h liday) or the separate words (_e.g._ h ly d y) are being used. 960. ~Here be~: see note, l. 12. ~without duck or nod~: words used to describe the ungraceful dancing and awkward courtesy of the country people. 961. ~trippings ... lighter toes ... court guise~: words used to describe the graceful movements of the Lady and her brothers: comp. _L'Alleg._ 33: "trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe." _Trod_ (or trodden), past participle of _tread_: 'to tread a measure' is a common expression, meaning 'to dance.' 'Court guise,' _i.e._ courtly mien; _guise_ is a doublet of _wise_ = way, _e.g._ 'in this wise,' 'like_wise_,' 'other_wise_.' In such pairs of words as _guise_ and _wise_, _guard_ and _ward_, _guile_ and _wile_, the forms in _gu_ have come into English through the French. 963. ~Mercury~ (the Greek Hermes) was the herald of the gods, and as such was represented as having winged ankles (Gk. ): his name is here used as a synonym both for agility and refinement. 964. ~mincing Dryades~. The Dryades are wood-nymphs (Gk. , a tree), here represented as mincing, _i.e._ tripping with short steps, unlike the clumsy striding of the country people. Comp. _Merch. of V._ iii. 4. 67: "turn two _mincing_ steps Into a manly stride." Applied to a person's gait (or speech), the word now implies affectation. 965. ~lawns ... leas~. On 'lawn,' see note, l. 568: a 'lea' is a meadow. 966. This song is sung by Lawes while presenting the three young persons to the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. 967. ~ye~: see note, l. 216. 968. ~so goodly grown~, _i.e._ grown so goodly. _Goodly_ = handsome (A.S. _g dlic_ = goodlike). 970. ~timely~. Here an adverb: in l. 689 it is an adjective. Comp. the two phrases in _Macbeth_: "To gain the _timely_ inn," iii. 3. 7; and "To call _timely_ on him," ii. 3. 51. 972. ~assays~, trials, temptations. _Assay_ is used by Milton in the sense of 'attempt' as well as of 'trial': see _Arc._ 80, "I will _assay_, her worth to celebrate." The former meaning is now confined to the form _essay_ (radically the same word); and the use of _assay_ has been still further restricted from its being used chiefly of the testing of metals. Comp. _Par. Lost_, iv. 932, "hard _assays_ and ill successes"; _Par. Reg._ i. 264, iv. 478. 974, 5. ~To triumph~. The whole purpose of the poem is succinctly expressed in these lines. _Stage Direction_: ~Spirit epiloguizes~, _i.e._ sings the epilogue or concluding stanzas. In one of Lawes' manuscripts of the mask, the epilogue consists of twelve lines only, those numbered 1012-1023. From the same copy we find that line 976 had been altered by Lawes in such a manner as to convert the first part of the epilogue into a prologue which, in his character as Attendant Spirit, he sang whilst descending upon the stage:-- _From the heavens_ now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad _field_ of the sky. There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. There eternal summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing, About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purfled scarf can show, _Yellow, watchet, green, and blue_, And drenches oft with _Manna_ dew Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where _many a cherub soft_ reposes. Doubtless this was the arrangement in the actual performance of the mask. 976. ~To the ocean~, etc. The resemblance of this song, in rhythm and rhyme, to the song of Ariel in the _Tempest_, v. 1. 88-94, has been frequently pointed out: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I," etc. Compare also the song of Johphiel in _The Fortunate Isles_ (Ben Jonson): "Like a lightning from the sky," etc. The epilogue as sung by Lawes (ll. 1012-1023) may also be compared with the epilogue of the _Tempest_: "Now my charms are all o'erthrown," etc. 977. ~happy climes~. Comp. _Odyssey_, iv. 566: "The deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end ... where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill west to blow cool on men": see also l. 14. 'Clime,' radically the same as _climate_, is still used in its literal sense = a region of the earth; while 'climate' has the secondary meaning of 'atmospheric conditions.' Comp. _Son._ viii. 8: "Whatever _clime_ the sun's bright circle warms." 978. ~day ... eye~. Comp. _Son._ i. 5: "the _eye_ of day"; and _Lyc._ 26: "the opening _eyelids_ of the Morn." 979. ~broad fields of the sky~. Comp. Virgil's "_A ris in campis latis_," _Aen._ vi. 888. 980. ~suck the liquid air~, inhale the pure air. 'Liquid' (lit. flowing) is used figuratively and generally in the sense of pure and sweet: comp. _Son._ i. 5, "thy liquid notes." 981. ~All amidst~. For this adverbial use of _all_ (here modifying the following prepositional phrase), compare _Il Pens._ 33, "_all_ in a robe of darkest grain." 982. ~Hesperus~: see note, l. 393. Hesperus, the brother of Atlas, had three daughters--Aegle, Cynthia, and Hesperia. They were famed for their sweet song. In Milton's MS. _Hesperus_ is written over _Atlas_: Spenser makes them daughters of Atlas, as does Jonson in _Pleasure reconciled to Virtue_. 984. ~crisp d shades~. 'Crisped,' like 'curled' (comp. "curl the grove," _Arc._ 46) is a common expression in the poetry of the time, and has the same meaning. The original form is the adjective 'crisp' (Lat. _crispus_ = curled), from which comes the verb _to crisp_ and the participle _crisped_. Compare "the _crisped_ brooks ... ran nectar," _Par. Lost_, iv. 237, where the word is best rendered 'rippled'; also Tennyson's _Claribel_, 19, "the babbling runnel _crispeth_." In the present case the reference is to the foliage of the trees. 985. ~spruce~, gay. This word, now applied to persons with a touch of levity, was formerly used both of things and persons in the sense of gay or neat. Compare the present and earlier uses of the word _jolly_, on which Pattison says:--"This is an instance of the disadvantage under which poetry in a living language labours. No knowledge of the meaning which a word bore in 1631 can wholly banish the later and vulgar associations which may have gathered round it since. Apart from direct parody and burlesque, the tendency of living speech is gradually to degrade the noble; so that as time goes on the range of poetical expression grows from generation to generation more and more restricted." The origin of the word _spruce_ is disputed: Skeat holds that it is a corruption of Pruce (old Fr. _Pruce_, mod. Fr. _Prusse_) = Prussia; we read in the 14th century of persons dressed after the fashion of Prussia or Spruce, and Prussia was called Sprussia by some English writers up to the beginning of the 17th century. See also Trench, _Select Glossary_. 986. ~The Graces~. The three Graces of classical mythology were Euphrosyne (the light-hearted one), Aglaia (the bright one), and Thalia (the blooming one). See _L'Alleg._ 12: "Euphrosyne ... Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crown d Bacchus bore." They were sometimes represented as daughters of Zeus, and as the goddesses who purified and enhanced all the innocent pleasures of life. ~rosy-bosomed Hours~. The Hours (Hor ) of classical mythology were the goddesses of the Seasons, whose course was described as the dance of the Hor . The Hora of Spring accompanied Persephone every year on her ascent from the lower world, and the expression "The chamber of the Hor opens" is equivalent to "The Spring is coming." 'Rosy-bosomed'; the Gk. : compare the epithets 'rosy-fingered' (applied by Homer to the dawn), 'rosy-armed,' etc. 989. ~musky ... fling~. Compare _Par. Lost_, viii. 515: "Fresh gales and gentle airs Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub." In this passage the verb _fling_ is similarly used. 'Musky' = fragrant: comp. 'musk-rose,' l. 496. 990. ~cedarn alleys~, _i.e._ alleys of cedar trees. For 'alley,' comp. l. 311. For the form of 'cedarn,' see note on 'azurn,' l. 893. Tennyson uses the word 'cedarn' in _Recoll. of Arab. Nights_, 115. 991. ~Nard and cassia~; two aromatic plants. Cassia is a name sometimes applied to the wild cinnamon: nard is also called _spike-nard_; see allusion in the Bible, _Mark_, xiv. 3; _Exod._ xxx. 24, etc. 992. ~Iris ... humid bow~: see note, l. 83. The allusion is, of course, to the rainbow. 993. ~blow~, here used actively = cause to blossom: comp. Jonson, _Mask at Highgate_, "For thee, Favonius, here shall _blow_ New flowers." 995. ~purfled~ = having an embroidered edge (O.F. _pourfiler_): the verb _to purfle_ survives in the contracted form _to purl_, and is cognate with profile = a front line or edge. ~shew~: here rhymes with _dew_; comp. l. 511, 512. This points to the fact that in Milton's time the present pronunciation of _shew_, though familiar, was not the only one recognised. 996. ~drenches with Elysian dew~, _i.e._ soaks with heavenly dew. The Homeric Elysium is described in _Odyssey_, iv.: see note, l. 977; it was afterwards identified with the abode of the blessed, l. 257. _Drench_ is the causative of _drink_: here the nominative of the verb is 'Iris' and the object 'beds.' 997. ~if your ears be true~, _i.e._ if your ears be pure: the poet is about to speak of that which cannot be understood by those with "gross unpurg d ear" (_Arc._ 73, and _Com._ l. 458). He alludes to that pure Love which "leads up to Heaven," _Par. Lost_, viii. 612. 998. ~hyacinth~. This is the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe" of _Lycidas_, 106: it sprang from the blood of Hyacinthus, a youth beloved by Apollo. 999. ~Adonis~, the beloved of Venus, died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. The grief of Venus was so great that the gods of the lower world allowed him to spend six months of every year on earth. The story is of Asiatic origin, and is supposed to be symbolic of the revival of nature in spring and its death in winter. Comp. _Par. Lost_, ix. 439, "those gardens feigned Or of revived Adonis," etc. 1000. ~waxing well of~, _i.e._ recovering from. The A.S. _weaxan_ = to grow or increase: Shakespeare has 'man of wax' = adult, _Rom. and Jul._ i. 3. 76; see also Index to Globe _Shakespeare_. 1002. ~Assyrian queen~, _i.e._ Venus, whose worship came from the East, probably from Assyria. She was originally identical with Astarte, called by the Hebrews Ashteroth: see _Par. Lost_, i. 438-452, where Adonis appears as Thammuz. 1003, 4. ~far above ... advanced~. These words are to be read together: 'advanced' is an attribute to 'Cupid,' and is modified by 'far above.' 1003. ~spangled sheen~, glittering brightness. 'Spangled': _spangle_ is a diminutive of _spang_ = a metal clasp, and hence 'a shining ornament.' In poetry it is common to speak of the stars as 'spangles' and of the heavens as 'spangled': comp. Addison's well-known lines: "The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And _spangled_ heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim." Comp. also _Lyc._ 170, "with _new-spangled_ ore." 'Sheen' is here used as a noun, as in line 893; also in _Hymn Nat._ 145, "throned in celestial _sheen_": _Epitaph on M. of W._ 73, "clad in radiant _sheen_." The word occurs in Spenser as an adjective also: comp. "her dainty corse so fair and _sheen_," _F. Q._ ii. 1. 10. In the line "By fountain clear or spangled starlight _sheen_" (_M. N. D._ ii. l. 29) it is doubtful whether the word is a noun or an adjective. Milton uses the adjective _sheeny_ (_Death of Fair Infant_, 48). 1004. ~Celestial Cupid~. The ordinary view of Cupid is given in the note to line 445; here he is the lover of Psyche (the human soul) to whom he is united after she has been purified by a life of trial and misfortune. The myth of Cupid and Psyche is as follows: Cupid was in love with Psyche, but warned her that she must not seek to know who he was. Yielding to curiosity, however, she drew near to him with a lamp while he was asleep. A drop of the hot oil falling on him, he awoke, and fled from her. She now wandered from place to place, persecuted by Venus; but after great sorrow, during which she was secretly supported by Cupid, she became immortal and was united to him for ever. In this story Psyche represents the human soul (Gk. ), which is disciplined and purified by earthly misfortune and so fitted for the enjoyment of true happiness in heaven. Further, in Milton's Allegory it is only the soul so purified that is capable of knowing true love: in his _Apology for Smectymnuus_ he calls it that Love "whose charming cup is only virtue," and whose "first and chiefest office ... begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy twins of her divine generation, Knowledge and Virtue." To this high and mystical love Milton again alludes in _Epitaphium Damonis_: "In other part, the expansive vault above, And there too, even there the god of love; With quiver armed he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls, Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high Sends every arrow to the lofty sky; Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn The power of Cupid, and enamoured burn." _Cowper's translation._ 1007. ~among~: preposition governing 'gods.' 1008. ~make~: subjunctive after 'till.' Its nominative is 'consent.' 1010. ~blissful~, blest. _Bliss_ is cognate with _bless_ and _blithe_. Comp. "the _blest_ kingdoms meek of joy and love," _Lyc._ 177. ~are to be born~. There seems to be here a confusion of constructions between the subjunctive co-ordinate with _make_ and the indicative dependent in meaning on "Jove hath sworn" in the following line. 1011. ~Youth and Joy~. Everlasting youth and joy are found only after the trials of earth are past. So Spenser makes Pleasure the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, but she is "the daughter late," _i.e._ she is possible only to the purified soul. See also note on l. 1004. 1012. ~my task~, _i.e._ the task alluded to in line 18. This line is an adverbial clause = Now that (or _because_) my task is smoothly done. 1013. The Spirit's task being finished he is free to soar where he pleases. There seems to be implied the injunction that mankind can by virtue alone attain to the same spiritual freedom. 1014. ~green earth's end~. The world as known to the ancients did not extend much beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The Cape Verd Islands, which lie outside these straits, may be here referred to: comp. _Par. Lost_, viii. 630: "But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the earth's green Cape and Verdant Isles Hesperean sets, my signal to depart." 1015. ~bowed welkin~: the meaning of the line is, "Where the arched sky curves slowly towards the horizon." _Welkin_ is, radically, "the region of clouds," A.S. _wolcnu_, clouds. 1017. ~corners of the moon~, _i.e._ its horns. The crescent moon is said to be 'horned' (Lat. _cornu_, a horn). Comp. the lines in _Macbeth_, iii. 5. 23, 24: "Upon the corners of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound." 1020. ~She can teach ye how to climb~, etc. Compare Jonson's song to Virtue: "Though a stranger here on earth In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is Virtue's seat: Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can

hook

How many times the word 'hook' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

hill

How many times the word 'hill' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

ball

How many times the word 'ball' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

wheel

How many times the word 'wheel' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

might

How many times the word 'might' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

full

How many times the word 'full' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

hoped

How many times the word 'hoped' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

indisposed

How many times the word 'indisposed' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

could

How many times the word 'could' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

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How many times the word 'read' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

thin

How many times the word 'thin' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

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How many times the word 'supplied' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

warn

How many times the word 'warn' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

followed

How many times the word 'followed' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

sherlock

How many times the word 'sherlock' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

country

How many times the word 'country' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

hearty

How many times the word 'hearty' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

acquaintance

How many times the word 'acquaintance' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

despise

How many times the word 'despise' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

cooler

How many times the word 'cooler' appears in the text?

'I can't say it is.' 'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on Godwin, hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop, I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.' Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in verbal fence, Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom, they were presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour, Godwin spoke. 'Are you awake?' 'Yes.' 'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.' 'Oh.' The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity. 'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't?' Oliver delayed a little before replying. 'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.' 'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College, and give up all my hopes.' 'I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension. There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed, as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night. 'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime, just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.' 'Do you mean to say I am like uncle?' 'I mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents; very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just think over this, and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read! Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read, read, read!' Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed, and at length his protest became audible. 'I can't see what harm I do.' 'No!' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose _I_ could sing nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and waste hours over idiotic puzzles?' 'We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.' 'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless and vulgar.' 'Well, if I haven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied Oliver, with sullen resignation. 'You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if only you look to the right kind of example.' There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies; when it was all over, he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours. The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination, but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all, and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the works, and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters, who, like all women who did not inspire him with admiration, excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him. A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm, and then into Twybridge, was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle; his wife, until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come; his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop; another had begun to deal in corn; the rest were scattered about England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them, all and sundry; they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes, to keep the world a-rolling. So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner; for, though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly some of the London streets, and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter of course, it was to London that his ambition pointed, when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement? At Twybridge? Impossible to find more than means of subsistence; his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill? There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory work; but what could come of that--at all events for many years? London, then? The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts; a government office might afford him scope, and, he had heard, would allow him abundant leisure. Or to go abroad? To enter for the Indian clerkships, and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England? There was allurement in the suggestion; travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an obstacle; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes; this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give attention to the matter. Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner; why not interrupt his walk, and have a word with him? That duty would be over. He pushed on, and, as he approached the buildings, was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road, unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer, who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed with smiles of approbation. 'Glad to see you; glad to see you! I have heard of your doings at College.' 'Nothing to boast of, Mr. Moxey.' 'Why, what would satisfy you? A nephew of mine was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.' There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty, well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey. 'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Peak,' he said, with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day, when you distinguished yourself, and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.' Godwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception, at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane, and his movements were languid; none the less, his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features, separately considered, were ordinary enough; together they made a countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features. 'Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.' Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at; he wished to decline, yet knew not how to do so with civility. 'Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time? My nephew won't be out of it; he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers--the Rotherhithe people, you know.' This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark, and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry. The five daughters--all assembled in a homely sitting-room--were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen; few families called upon them; and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour at politeness; their gravity, a result of shyness, he misinterpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady, a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen, but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls; her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged. 'My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.' 'Oh yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made a sudden offer of her hand. She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives; their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window, and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced. Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her (by the name of Janet) his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner, his place was by her side, and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments, he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object; his instincts were, in fact, revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery, Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him. Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity, and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems: one must learn to act a part, to control the facial mechanism, to observe and anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others, who lives on the surface of things, who can be interested without emotion, and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement. When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years;--was it, or was it not, generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw? To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing; payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends? There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private, and to Godwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements, it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed, and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy, and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude. When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet: Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very contented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate. 'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw?' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.' 'I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's reply. 'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business, so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London?' 'Yes--I think it likely,' Godwin answered, with an absent glance this way and that. 'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms, will you? I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe, but I get home about five o'clock, as a rule. Let me give you a card.' 'Thank you.' 'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to work, but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.' Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey? Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence, Christian looked about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly smiles they parted. Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more. His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him; it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that, he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom. A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before, he had stepped upon the point of a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self--bloodless, hollow-eyed. 'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us!' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh! who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age? Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail! A damned Brummagem nail!--So you collared the first prize in geology, eh? I take that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his _Deluge_, eh? His Deluge, bah!' And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unintelligible words. The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth, the end came. It was found that he had made a will, bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak: his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth from the house, and the faithful couple slept together. To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development, every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him, and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker, a young man of singularly complex personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking, but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings. Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified; the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw, probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime, should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.? The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take a degree? He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches, but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and heard; and at length--on a memorable Saturday afternoon--debate revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the table. 'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear. 'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother. 'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?' 'And why not?' Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the table-cloth indignantly. 'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to buy and wear such a thing?' 'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable shape.' Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to defend himself. 'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody wears this shape.' 'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects himself should choose something as different as possible? Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?' 'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am content to be like other people.' 'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend! Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!' The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent room. 'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should you put yourself out so?' She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility, independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress. Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament. Oliver began to represent his grievance. 'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in fashion? I pay for it out of my own'-- But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son. 'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll? 'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace; she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I 'ope?' He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour. 'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your awnt.' 'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported his assertion. Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room. Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound disturbance. 'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything about Kingsmill?' 'Not yet. Oh, I _do_ so wish we could bring this connection to an end!' It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so unreservedly. 'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let him know the truth?' 'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all? I might say you are too busy.' 'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with you. I must hear what he has to say.' They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully: 'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey an' me was over there all yisterday--wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's immense!' Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no more connection with Kingsmill. Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance from uncle to nephew. 'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked, carelessly. 'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper--up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular--see? to send round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can get the addresses of--see?' Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it

likeness

How many times the word 'likeness' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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comes

How many times the word 'comes' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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dishes

How many times the word 'dishes' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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How many times the word 'issue' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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shall

How many times the word 'shall' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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discretion

How many times the word 'discretion' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. 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jokingly

How many times the word 'jokingly' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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grasp

How many times the word 'grasp' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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half

How many times the word 'half' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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thing

How many times the word 'thing' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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journalist

How many times the word 'journalist' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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his

How many times the word 'his' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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joint

How many times the word 'joint' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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dreamless

How many times the word 'dreamless' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. 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now

How many times the word 'now' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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education

How many times the word 'education' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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doing

How many times the word 'doing' appears in the text?

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see _you_--and one or two other old friends; and to look after some business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my assertion!' 'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you say.' 'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe--of whom I have written to you. I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her education. She might have been even more interesting than she is. But--you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?' 'For an hour or two.' 'Oh, confound it! When a friend comes back from the ends of the earth!--Yes, yes; I understand. You are a busy man; forgive my hastiness. Well now, I was going to say that I shall probably call upon Mrs. Jacox.' He paused, and gave the listener a stern look, forbidding misconstruction. 'Yes, I shall probably go down to Wrotham. I wish to put my relations with that family on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very satisfactory, especially of late. The poor woman laments more sincerely her--well, let us say, her folly of two years and a half ago. She has outlived it; she regards me as a friend. Bella and Lily seem to be getting on very well indeed. That governess of theirs--we won't have any more mystery; it was I who undertook the trifling expense. A really excellent teacher, I have every reason to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remarkable pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages. But my interest in them is merely that of a friend; let it be understood.' 'Precisely. You didn't say whether the girls have been writing to you?' 'No, no, no! Not a line. I have exchanged letters only with their mother. Anything else would have been indiscreet. I shall be glad to see them, but my old schemes are things of the past. There is not the faintest probability that Bella has retained any recollection of me at all.' 'I daresay not,' assented Earwaker. 'You think so? Very well; I have acted wisely. Bella is still a child, you know--compared with a man of my age. She is seventeen and a few months; quite a child! Miss Maccabe is just one-and-twenty; the proper age. When we are married, I think I shall bring her to Europe for a year or two. Her education needs that; she will be delighted to see the old countries.' 'Have you her portrait?' 'Oh no! Things haven't got so far as that. What a hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you distinctly'---- He talked till after midnight, and at leave-taking apologised profusely for wasting his friend's valuable time. Earwaker awaited with some apprehension the result of Malkin's visit to Wrotham. But the report of what took place on that occasion was surprisingly commonplace. Weeks passed, and Malkin seldom showed himself at Staple Inn; when he did so, his talk was exclusively of Miss Maccabe; all he could be got to say of the young ladies at Wrotham was, 'Nice girls; very nice girls. I hope they'll marry well.' Two months had gone by, and already the journalist had heard by letter of his friend's intention to return to New Zealand, when, on coming home late one night, he found Malkin sitting on the steps. 'Earwaker, I have something very serious to tell you. Give me just a quarter of an hour.' What calamity did this tone portend? The eccentric man seated himself with slow movement. Seen by a good light, his face was not gloomy, but very grave. 'Listen to me, old friend,' he began, sliding forward to the edge of his chair. 'You remember I told you that my relations with the Maccabe family had been marked throughout with extreme discretion.' 'You impressed that upon me.' 'Good! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and I doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible husband.' 'Well?' 'Don't be impatient. I want you to grasp the fact. It is important, because--I am going to marry Bella Jacox.' 'You don't say so?' 'Why not?' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a state of excitement. 'What objection can you make? I tell you that I am absolutely free to choose'---- The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear a glowing account of Bella's perfections. All the feeling that Malkin had suppressed during these two months rushed forth in a flood of turbid eloquence. 'And now,' he concluded, 'you will come down with me to Wrotham. I don't mean to-night; let us say the day after tomorrow, Sunday. You remember our last joint visit! Ha, ha!' 'Mrs. Jacox is reconciled?' 'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility in that poor little woman! She wept upon my shoulder! But you must see Bella! I shan't take her to New Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall travel about Europe, completing her education. Don't you approve of that?' On Sunday, the two travelled down into Kent. This time they were received by Lily, now a pretty, pale, half-developed girl of fifteen. In a few minutes her sister entered. Bella was charming; nervousness made her words few, and it could be seen that she was naturally thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie; her beauty had still to ripen, and gave much promise for the years between twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared Mrs. Jacox, who blushed as she shook hands with Earwaker, and for a time was ill at ease; but her vocatives were not long restrained, and when all sat down to the tea-table she chattered away with astonishing vivacity. After tea the company was joined by a lady of middle age, who, for about two years, had acted as governess to the girls. Earwaker formed his conclusions as to the 'trifling expense' which her services represented; but it was probably a real interest in her pupils which had induced a person of so much refinement to bear so long with the proximity of Mrs. Jacox. 'A natural question occurs to me,' remarked Earwaker, as they were returning. 'Who and what was Mr. Jacox?' 'Ah! Bella was talking to me about him the other day. He must have been distinctly an interesting man. Bella had a very clear recollection of him, and she showed me two or three photographs. Engaged in some kind of commerce. I didn't seek particulars. But a remarkable man, one can't doubt.' He resumed presently. 'Now don't suppose that this marriage entirely satisfies me. Bella has been fairly well taught, but not, you see, under my supervision. I ought to have been able to watch and direct her month by month. As it is, I shall have to begin by assailing her views on all manner of things. Religion, for example. Well, I have no religion, that's plain. I might call myself this or that for the sake of seeming respectable, but it all comes to the same thing. I don't mind Bella going to church if she wishes, but I must teach her that there's no merit whatever in doing so. It isn't an ideal marriage, but perhaps as good as this imperfect world allows. If I have children, I can then put my educational theories to the test.' By way of novel experience, Earwaker, not long after this, converted his study into a drawing-room, and invited the Jacox family to taste his tea and cake. With Malkin's assistance, the risky enterprise was made a great success. When Mrs. Jacox would allow her to be heard, Bella talked intelligently, and showed eager interest in the details of literary manufacture. 'O Mr. Earwaker!' cried her mother, when it was time to go. 'What a delightful afternoon you have given us! We must think of you from now as one of our very best friends. Mustn't we, Lily?' But troubles were yet in store. Malkin was strongly opposed to a religious marriage; he wished the wedding to be at a registrar's office, and had obtained Bella's consent to this, but Mrs. Jacox would not hear of such a thing. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How _can_ you think of being married like a costermonger? O Mr. Malkin, you will break my heart, indeed you will!' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Earwaker, imploring his intercession. The journalist took his friend in hand. 'My good fellow, don't make a fool of yourself. Women are born for one thing only, the Church of England marriage service. How can you seek to defeat the end of their existence? Give in to the inevitable. Grin and bear it.' 'I can't! I won't! It shall be a runaway match! I had rather suffer the rack than go through an ordinary wedding!' Dire was the conflict. Down at Wrotham there were floods of tears. In the end, Bella effected a compromise; the marriage was to be at a church, but in the greatest possible privacy. No carriages, no gala dresses, no invitations, no wedding feast; the bare indispensable formalities. And so it came to pass. Earwaker and the girl's governess were the only strangers present, when, on a morning of June, Malkin and Bella were declared by the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride wore a graceful travelling costume; the bridegroom was in corresponding attire. 'Heaven be thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkin, as he issued from the portal. 'Bella, we have twenty-three minutes to get to the railway station. Don't cry!' he whispered to her. 'I can't stand that!' 'No, no; don't be afraid,' she whispered back. 'We have said good-bye already.' 'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.--Goodbye, all! Shall write from Paris, Earwaker. Nineteen minutes; we shall just manage it!' He sprang into the cab, and away it clattered. A letter from Paris, a letter from Strasburg, from Berlin, Munich--letters about once a fortnight. From Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast to the incoherent enthusiasm of her husband's compositions. Midway in September she announced their departure from a retreat in Switzerland. 'We are in the utmost excitement, for it is now decided that in three days we start for Italy! The heat has been terrific, and we have waited on what seems to me the threshold of Paradise until we could hope to enjoy the delights beyond. We go first to Milan. My husband, of course, knows Italy, but he shares my impatience. I am to entreat you to write to Milan, with as much news as possible. Especially have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak?' November the pair spent in Rome, and thence was despatched the following in Malkin's hand: 'This time I am _not_ mistaken! I have seen Peak. He didn't see me; perhaps wouldn't have known me. It was in Piale's reading-room. I had sat down to _The Times_, when a voice behind me sounded in such a curiously reminding way that I couldn't help looking round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might have been uncertain about his face, but the voice brought back that conversation at your rooms too unmistakably--long ago as it was. He was talking to an American, whom evidently he had met somewhere else, and had now recognised. "I've had a fever," he said, "and can't quite shake off the results. Been in Ischia for the last month. I'm going north to Vienna." Then the two walked away together. He looked ill, sallow, worn out. Let me know if you hear.' On that same day, Earwaker received another letter, with the Roman post-mark. It was from Peak. 'I have had nothing particular to tell you. A month ago I thought I should never write to you again; I got malarial fever, and lay desperately ill at the _Ospedale Internazionale_ at Naples. It came of some monstrous follies there's no need to speak of. A new and valuable experience. I know what it is to look steadily into the eyes of Death. 'Even now, I am far from well. This keeps me in low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a friend. What a glorious place Staple Inn seemed to me as I lay in the hospital! Proof how low I had sunk: I thought longingly of Exeter, of a certain house there--never mind! 'I write hastily. An invitation from some musical people has decided me to strike for Vienna. Up there, I shall get my health back. The people are of no account--boarding-house acquaintances--but they may lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from loneliness.' This was the eighteenth of November. On the twenty-eighth the postman delivered a letter of an appearance which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the mark 'Wien'. From Peak, therefore. But the writing was unknown, plainly that of a foreigner. The envelope contained two sheets of paper. The one was covered with a long communication in German; on the other stood a few words of English, written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no recognising: 'Ill again, and alone. If I die, act for me. Write to Mrs. Peak, Twybridge.' Beneath was added, 'J. E. Earwaker, Staple Inn, London.' He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. Earwaker read a German book as easily as an English, but German manuscript was a terror to him. And the present correspondent wrote so execrably that beyond _Geehrter Herr_, scarcely a word yielded sense to his anxious eyes. Ha! One he had made out--_gestorben_. Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened out, and knocked at the door of an acquaintance in another part of the Inn. This was a man who had probably more skill in German cursive. Between them, they extracted the essence of the letter. He who wrote was the landlord of an hotel in Vienna. He reported that an English gentleman, named Peak, just arrived from Italy, had taken a bedroom at that house. In the night, the stranger became very ill, sent for a doctor, and wrote the lines enclosed, the purport whereof he at the same time explained to his attendants. On the second day Mr. Peak died. Among his effects were found circular notes, and a sum of loose money. The body was about to be interred. Probably Mr. Earwaker would receive official communications, as the British consul had been informed of the matter. To whom should _bills_ be sent? The man of letters walked slowly back to his own abode. 'Dead, too, in exile!' was his thought. 'Poor old fellow!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Born in Exile, by George Gissing *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORN IN EXILE *** ***** This file should be named 4526.txt or 4526.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/4526/ Produced by Charles Aldarondo. 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complimentary

How many times the word 'complimentary' appears in the text?