I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished flower.
'Trotwood,' says Agnes, one day after dinner.

'Who do you think is going to be married tomorrow?
Someone you admire.' 'Not you, I suppose, Agnes ?' 'Not me!' raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying.

'Do you hear him, Papa ?--The eldest Miss Larkins.' 'To--to Captain Bailey ?' I have just enough power to ask.
'No; to no Captain.

To Mr.Chestle, a hop-grower.' I am terribly dejected for about a week or two.

I take off my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease, and I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower.