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Book, page 141 / 152 "Mr. Henry Armstrong said you might." She did not reply, but I thought a slight rose-colour tinged her cheek. "But he said you must not be out more than ten minutes." "Well, I suppose I must do as I am told." And she turned at once, and went up the stair to the door, almost as lightly as any other girl of her age. There was some progress, plainly enough. But was that a rose-tinge I had seen on her cheek or not? The next evening, after tea, we arranged ourselves much as on the last occasion; and Mr. Bloomfield, taking a neat manuscript from his pocket, and evidently restraining himself from apology and explanation, although as evidently nervous about the whole proceeding, and jealous of his own presumption, began to read as follows. His voice trembled as he read, and his wife's face was a shade or two paler than usual. "BIRTH, DREAMING, AND DEATH. "In a little room, scantily furnished, lighted, not from the window, for it was dark without, and the shutters were closed, but from the peaked flame of a small, clear-burning lamp, sat a young man, with his back to the lamp and his face to the fire. No book or paper on the table indicated labour just forsaken; nor could one tell from his eyes, in which the light had all retreated inwards, whether his consciousness was absorbed in thought, or reverie only. The window curtains, which scarcely concealed the shutters, were of coarse texture, but of brilliant scarlet--for he loved bright colours; and the faint reflection they threw on his pale, thin face, made it look more delicate than it would have seemed in pure daylight. Two or three bookshelves, suspended by cords from a nail in the wall, contained a collection of books, poverty-stricken as to numbers, with but few to
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