"Well, are you pleased that I am satisfied with your progress?" I
asked.
"Yes," said she slowly, gently, the blush that had half subsided
returning.
"But I do not say enough, I suppose?" I continued. "My praises
are too cool?"
She made no answer, and, I thought, looked a little sad. I
divined her thoughts, and should much have liked to have
responded to them, had it been expedient so to do. She was not
now very ambitious of my admiration--not eagerly desirous of
dazzling me; a little affection--ever so little--pleased her
better than all the panegyrics in the world. Feeling this, I
stood a good while behind her, writing on the margin of her book.
I could hardly quit my station or relinquish my occupation;
something retained me bending there, my head very near hers, and
my hand near hers too; but the margin of a copy-book is not an
illimitable space--so, doubtless, the directress thought; and she
took occasion to walk past in order to ascertain by what art I
prolonged so disproportionately the period necessary for filling
it. I was obliged to go. Distasteful effort--to leave what we
most prefer!
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