I Don't Believe There's A Man In

He Shook Hands With Margaret. He Knew It Was The First Time Their Hands Had Met, Though She Was Perfectly Unconscious Of The Fact.

He Could Not - Say Rather, He Would Not - Deny Himself The Chance Of The Pleasure Of Seeing Margaret. He Had No End In This But The Present Gratification.

When Oranges Came In, A Curious Proceeding Was Gone Through. Miss Jenkyns Did Not Like To Cut The Fruit, For, As She Observed, The Juice All Ran Out Nobody Knew Where, Sucking [only I Think She Used Some More Recondite Word] Was In Fact The Only Way Of Enjoying Oranges; But Then There Was The Unpleasant Association With A Ceremony Frequently Gone Through By Little Babies; And So, After Dessert, In Orange Season, Miss Jenkyns And Miss Matty Used To Rise Up, Possess Themselves Each Of An Orange In Silence, And Withdraw To The Privacy Of Their Own Rooms To Indulge In Sucking Oranges.

But Margaret Was At An Age When Any Apprehension, Not Absolutely Based On A Knowledge Of Facts, Is Easily Banished For A Time By A Bright Sunny Day, Or Some Happy Outward Circumstance. And When The Brilliant Fourteen Fine Days Of October Came On, Her Cares Were All Blown Away As Lightly As Thistledown, And She Thought Of Nothing But The Glories Of The Forest.

Oh Yes!' And Suddenly The Wintry Frost-bound Look Of Care Had Left Mr. Thornton's Face, As If Some Soft Summer Gale Had Blown All Anxiety Away From His Mind; And, Though His Mouth Was As Much Compressed As Before, His Eyes Smiled Out Benignly On His Questioner.