new
order of things; she began to look upon the girl with a certain awe, as one
whose future might reveal marvels.
    For Jane, as we know, the marvels had already begun. She came back from
Danbury not altogether like herself; unsettled a little, as it appeared; and
Michael's illness, befalling so soon, brought her into a nervous state such as
she had not known for a long time. The immediate effect of the disclosure made
to her by Michael whilst he was recovering was to overwhelm her with a sense of
responsibilities, to throw her mind into painful tumult. Slow of thought,
habituated to the simplest views of her own existence, very ignorant of the
world beyond the little circle in which her life had been passed, she could not
at once bring into the control of her reflection this wondrous future to which
her eyes had been opened. The way in which she had been made acquainted with the
facts was unfortunate. Michael Snowdon, in spite of his deep affection for her,
and of the trust he had come to repose in her character, did not understand Jane
well enough to bring about this revelation with the needful prudence. Between
him, a man burdened with the sorrowful memories of a long life, originally of
stern temperament, and now, in the feebleness of his age, possessed by an
enthusiasm which in several respects disturbed his judgment, which made him
desperately eager to secure his end now that he felt life slipping away from him
- between him and such a girl as Jane there was a wider gulf than either of them
could be aware of. Little as he desired it, he could not help using a tone which
seemed severe rather than tenderly trustful. Absorbed in his great idea,
conscious that it had regulated every detail in his treatment of Jane since she
came to live with him, he forgot that the girl herself was by no means
adequately prepared to receive the solemn injunctions which he now delivered to
her. His language was as general as were the ideas of beneficent activity which
he desired to embody in Jane's future; but instead of inspiring her with his own
zeal, he afflicted her with grievous spiritual trouble. For a time she could
only feel that something great and hard and high was suddenly required of her;
the old man's look seemed to keep repeating, »Are you worthy?« The tremor of
bygone days came back upon her as she listened, the anguish of timidity, the
heart-sinking, with which she had been wont to strain her attention when Mrs.
Peckover or Clem imposed a harsh