forward." No
one knew better than herself and her mother how this rumour had been
wafted on, and how little there was in it. "Yet," she reflected, "it was
my best chance. It was necessary to put it into his head somehow to
think about me in such a light; but that others have thought too much
and said too much, it might have succeeded. What I should like best
now," she further considered, pondering slowly over the words in her
mind, "would be to have people say that I have refused him."

She had reached this point when Emily joined her walking silently
beside her, that she might not appear companionless. Emily was full of
 for her, in  of the lightening of her own . People who
have nothing to  best know what a lifting of the cloud it is to have
also nothing to wordnetfear.

The poetical temperament of Emily's mind made her frequently change
places with others, and, indeed, become in thought those others--wordnetfear,
, and all.

"What are you crying for, Emily?" her mother had once said to her, when
she was a little child.

"I'm not Emily now," she answered; "I'm the poor little owl,