She entertained
herself for some moments with talking to the little terrier, as to
whom the proposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been
applied as impartially as possible- impartially as Bunchie's own
somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was
notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character
of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its
extent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a
book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help
of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to
the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to be denied, literature
had seemed a fading light, and even after she had reminded herself
that her uncle's library was provided with a complete set of those
authors which no gentleman's collection should be without, she sat
motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green turf of
the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of
a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the London postmark
and was addressed in a hand she knew- that came into her vision,
already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice or
his face.
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