it was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with
Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the
snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous
sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were
lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour,
and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain
unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting
pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only
of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-
folded kid gloves--bound up in each other.
'I have forgotten my flowers,' said the spinster aunt.
'Water them now,' said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.
'You will take cold in the evening air,' urged the spinster aunt
affectionately.
'No, no,' said Mr. Tupman, rising; 'it will do me good. Let me
accompany you.'
The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the
youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle,
jessamine, and creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats
which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.
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