When I intimated so much, which I did as usual in dry and stinted phrase, I looked for the radiant and exulting smile my one word of eulogy had elicited before; but Frances coloured.

If she did smile, it was very softly and shyly; and instead of looking up to me with a conquering glance, her eyes rested on my hand, which, stretched over her shoulder, was writing some directions with a pencil on the margin of her book.
"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.