I went.  I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor.  Rosamond was full of glee and pleasure all the time I stayed.  Her father was affable; and when he entered into conversation with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school, and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place, and would soon quit it for one more suitable.

“Indeed,” cried Rosamond, “she is clever enough to be a governess in a high family, papa.”

I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high family in the land.  Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers —­ of the Rivers family —­ with great respect.  He said it was a very old name in that neighbourhood; that the ancestors of the house were wealthy; that all Morton had once belonged to them; that even now he considered the representative of that house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best.  He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have formed the design of going out as a missionary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away.  It appeared, then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the way of Rosamond’s union with St. John.  Mr. Oliver evidently regarded the young clergyman’s good birth, old name, and sacred profession as sufficient compensation for the want of fortune.

It was the 5th of November, and a holiday.  My little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid.  All about me was spotless and bright —­ scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs.  I had also made myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.

The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I got my palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because easier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver’s miniature.  The head was finished already:  there was but the background to tint and the drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe lips —­ a soft curl here and there to the tresses —­ a deeper tinge to the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid.  I was absorbed in the execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers.

“I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,” he said.  “Not, I hope, in thought?  No, that is well:  while you draw you will not feel lonely.  You see, I mistrust you still, though you have borne up wonderfully so far.  I have brought you a book for evening solace,” and he laid on the table a new publication —­ a poem:  one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those days —­ the golden age of modern literature.  Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured.  But courage!  I will not pause either to accuse or repine.  I know poetry is not dead, nor genius