prompt:
Chapter: "Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning, "will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything."

"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always
wears white."

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were
in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to
see her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and
too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not at a
window, but issuing from the door, she saw Miss Tilney herself. She was
followed by a gentleman, whom Catherine believed to be her father,
and they turned up towards Edgar's Buildings. Catherine, in deep
mortification, proceeded on her way. She could almost be angry herself
at such angry incivility; but she checked the resentful sensation; she
remembered her own ignorance. She knew not how such an offence as hers
might be classed by the laws of worldly politeness, to what a degree
of unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.

Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long continuance, for she soon recollected, in the first
place, that she was without any excuse for staying at home; and, in the
second, that it was a play she wanted very much to see. To the theatre
accordingly they all went; no Tilneys appeared to plague or please her;
she feared that, amongst the many perfections of the family, a fondness
for plays was not to be ranked; but perhaps it was because they were
habituated to the finer performances of the London stage, which she
knew, on Isabella's authority, rendered everything else of the kind
"quite horrid." She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;
the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during
the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about
her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.
Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite
genuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look
upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the
space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without
being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of
indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage
during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,
and he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended
it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.
Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to
the box in which he sat and forced him to hear her explanation. Feelings
rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her
own dignity injured by this ready condemnation--instead of proudly
resolving, in conscious innocence, to show her resentment towards him
who could harbour a doubt of it, to leave to him all the trouble
of seeking an explanation, and to enlighten him on the past only by
avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself
all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only
eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.

The play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes
he appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke
with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such
calmness was he answered by the latter: "Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been
quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought
me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen?
Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a
phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times
rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?"

"My dear, you tumble my gown," was Mrs. Allen's reply.

Her assurance, however, standing sole as it did, was not thrown away; it
brought a more cordial, more natural smile into his countenance, and
he replied in a tone which retained only a little affected reserve:
"We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk
after our passing you in Argyle Street: you were so kind as to look back
on purpose."

"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such
a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to
him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! You were
not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped,
I would have jumped out and run after you."

Is there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a
declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. With a yet sweeter smile, he
said everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and
dependence on Catherine's honour. "Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not
angry," cried Catherine, "because I know she was; for she would not see
me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next
minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps
you did not know I had been there."

"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her
being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
and meant to make her apology as soon as possible."

Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
gentleman: "But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take
offence?"

"Me! I take offence!"

"Nay, I am sure by your look, when you came into the box, you were
angry."

"I angry! I could have no right."

"Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face." He
replied by asking her to make room for him, and talking of the play.

He remained with them some time, and was only too agreeable for
Catherine to be contented when he went away. Before they parted,
however, it was agreed that the projected walk should be taken as soon
as possible; and, setting aside the misery of his quitting their box,
she was, upon the whole, left one of the happiest creatures in the
world.

While talking to each other, she had observed with some surprise that
John Thorpe, who was never in the same part of the house for ten minutes
together, was engaged in conversation with General Tilney; and she felt
something more than surprise when she thought she could perceive herself
the object of their attention and discourse. What could they have to say
of her? She feared General Tilney did not like her appearance: she found
it was implied in his preventing her admittance to his daughter, rather
than postpone his own walk a few minutes. "How came Mr. Thorpe to know
your father?" was her anxious inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military
man, had a very large acquaintance.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had
travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in
a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General
Tilney: "He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks
as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a
gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived."

"But how came you to know him?"

"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today the
moment he came into the billiard-room. One of the best players we have,
by the by; and we had a little touch together, though I was almost
afraid of him at first: the odds were five to four against me; and, if
I had not made one of the cleanest strokes that perhaps ever was made in
this world--I took his ball exactly--but I could not make you understand
it without a table; however, I did beat him. A very fine fellow; as rich
as a Jew. I should like to dine with him; I dare say he gives famous
dinners. But what do you think we have been talking of? You. Yes, by
heavens! And the general thinks you the finest girl in Bath."

"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?"

"And what do you think I said?"--lowering his voice--"well done,
general, said I; I am quite of your mind."

Here Catherine, who was much less gratified by his admiration than by
General Tilney's, was not sorry to be called away by Mr. Allen. Thorpe,
however, would see her to her chair, and, till she entered it, continued
the same kind of delicate flattery, in spite of her entreating him to
have done.

That General Tilney, instead of disliking, should admire her, was very
delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was not one of the
family whom she need now fear to meet. The evening had done more, much
more, for her than could have been expected.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next morning, Catherine goes to the place where the Tilneys are staying, planning to explain everything. The servant tells her that Eleanor is not at home, but as Catherine walks away she sees Eleanor exit with her father. Mortified, Catherine fears she has greatly offended the Tilneys. At the theater that night, Catherine spots Henry. Catherine thinks Henry looks at her angrily. After the play he makes his way to Catherine. Henry was somewhat offended by the incident, but when Catherine tells him that she begged John Thorpe to stop the carriage, and would have joined Henry and Eleanor immediately if he had, Henry's coolness melts. Henry seems most relieved when he discovers how little attachment Catherine feels to John Thorpe. Catherine and Henry talk about the play, and while they speak, Catherine sees John Thorpe talking to General Tilney, Henry's father. After Henry leaves and John returns to help Catherine out of her seat, John tells her that the General said she was the "finest girl in Bath. Heartened by this news--she had feared that the General would not like her--Catherine quickly slips away from John with the Allens.


prompt:
Chapter: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
the afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a
private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had
particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously
placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather
were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and
they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine
only remained to be apprised of it. She had left them for a few minutes
to speak to Miss Tilney. In that interval the plan was completed, and as
soon as she came again, her agreement was demanded; but instead of the
gay acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very
sorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her
from joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to
accompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take
their proposed walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would
not, upon any account, retract. But that she must and should retract
was instantly the eager cry of both the Thorpes; they must go to Clifton
tomorrow, they would not go without her, it would be nothing to put off
a mere walk for one day longer, and they would not hear of a refusal.
Catherine was distressed, but not subdued. "Do not urge me, Isabella. I
am engaged to Miss Tilney. I cannot go." This availed nothing. The same
arguments assailed her again; she must go, she should go, and they would
not hear of a refusal. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Tilney that you
had just been reminded of a prior engagement, and must only beg to put
off the walk till Tuesday."

"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement." But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling
on her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
endearing names. She was sure her dearest, sweetest Catherine would not
seriously refuse such a trifling request to a friend who loved her so
dearly. She knew her beloved Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
stronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;
and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me
to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else."

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?
Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any
longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I
shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse."

This was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate
answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party.
If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing."

"Catherine, you must go," said James.

"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go."

"Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I
do. I only go for the sake of driving you."

"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.

The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; sometimes not a word was said,
sometimes she was again attacked with supplications or reproaches, and
her arm was still linked within Isabella's, though their hearts were
at war. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
distressed, but always steady.

"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James;
"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; you once were the kindest,
best-tempered of my sisters."

"I hope I am not less so now," she replied, very feelingly; "but indeed
I cannot go. If I am wrong, I am doing what I believe to be right."

"I suspect," said Isabella, in a low voice, "there is no great
struggle."

Catherine's heart swelled; she drew away her arm, and Isabella made no
opposition. Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined
by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, "Well, I
have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe
conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses."

"You have not!" cried Catherine.

"I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to
say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton
with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her
till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her;
so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of
mine--hey?"

Isabella's countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and
James too looked happy again.

"A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our
distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a
most delightful party."

"This will not do," said Catherine; "I cannot submit to this. I must run
after Miss Tilney directly and set her right."

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and
remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When
everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would
suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any
further objection.

"I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message.
If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss
Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know
that Mr. Thorpe has--He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into
one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe;
Isabella, do not hold me."

Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were
turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and
were at home by this time.

"Then I will go after them," said Catherine; "wherever they are I will
go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded
into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it."
And with these words she broke away and hurried off. Thorpe would have
darted after her, but Morland withheld him. "Let her go, let her go, if
she will go."

"She is as obstinate as--"

Thorpe never finished the simile, for it could hardly have been a proper
one.

Away walked Catherine in great agitation, as fast as the crowd would
permit her, fearful of being pursued, yet determined to persevere. As
she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to
have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
merely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some
degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
she almost ran over the remaining ground till she gained the top of
Milsom Street. So rapid had been her movements that in spite of the
Tilneys' advantage in the outset, they were but just turning into
their lodgings as she came within view of them; and the servant still
remaining at the open door, she used only the ceremony of saying
that she must speak with Miss Tilney that moment, and hurrying by him
proceeded upstairs. Then, opening the first door before her, which
happened to be the right, she immediately found herself in the
drawing-room with General Tilney, his son, and daughter. Her
explanation, defective only in being--from her irritation of nerves and
shortness of breath--no explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am
come in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I
told them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry
to explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay
for the servant."

The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe had given
the message; and Miss Tilney had no scruple in owning herself greatly
surprised by it. But whether her brother had still exceeded her in
resentment, Catherine, though she instinctively addressed herself as
much to one as to the other in her vindication, had no means of knowing.
Whatever might have been felt before her arrival, her eager declarations
immediately made every look and sentence as friendly as she could
desire.

The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney
to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her
think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of
her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter." And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
favour of his master forever, if not his place, by her rapidity.

After sitting with them a quarter of an hour, she rose to take leave,
and was then most agreeably surprised by General Tilney's asking her if
she would do his daughter the honour of dining and spending the rest
of the day with her. Miss Tilney added her own wishes. Catherine was
greatly obliged; but it was quite out of her power. Mr. and Mrs. Allen
would expect her back every moment. The general declared he could say no
more; the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Allen were not to be superseded; but on
some other day he trusted, when longer notice could be given, they would
not refuse to spare her to her friend. "Oh, no; Catherine was sure they
would not have the least objection, and she should have great pleasure
in coming." The general attended her himself to the street-door, saying
everything gallant as they went downstairs, admiring the elasticity of
her walk, which corresponded exactly with the spirit of her dancing, and
making her one of the most graceful bows she had ever beheld, when they
parted.

Catherine, delighted by all that had passed, proceeded gaily to Pulteney
Street, walking, as she concluded, with great elasticity, though she
had never thought of it before. She reached home without seeing anything
more of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant
throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began
(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been
perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way
to their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of
a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness
to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and
ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct
had really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the
half-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following
day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. "Well," said he, "and do you think
of going too?"

"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told
me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?"

"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
in open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
public places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should
allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland
would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of thinking? Do
not you think these kind of projects objectionable?"

"Yes, very much so indeed. Open carriages are nasty things. A clean
gown is not five minutes' wear in them. You are splashed getting in
and getting out; and the wind takes your hair and your bonnet in every
direction. I hate an open carriage myself."

"I know you do; but that is not the question. Do not you think it has an
odd appearance, if young ladies are frequently driven about in them by
young men, to whom they are not even related?"

"Yes, my dear, a very odd appearance indeed. I cannot bear to see it."

"Dear madam," cried Catherine, "then why did not you tell me so before?
I am sure if I had known it to be improper, I would not have gone with
Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong."

"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,
as your good mother says herself. You know I wanted you, when we first
came, not to buy that sprigged muslin, but you would. Young people do
not like to be always thwarted."

"But this was something of real consequence; and I do not think you
would have found me hard to persuade."

"As far as it has gone hitherto, there is no harm done," said Mr. Allen;
"and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Thorpe any
more."

"That is just what I was going to say," added his wife.

Catherine, relieved for herself, felt uneasy for Isabella, and after a
moment's thought, asked Mr. Allen whether it would not be both proper
and kind in her to write to Miss Thorpe, and explain the indecorum of
which she must be as insensible as herself; for she considered that
Isabella might otherwise perhaps be going to Clifton the next day, in
spite of what had passed. Mr. Allen, however, discouraged her from doing
any such thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear; she is old
enough to know what she is about, and if not, has a mother to advise
her. Mrs. Thorpe is too indulgent beyond a doubt; but, however, you had
better not interfere. She and your brother choose to go, and you will be
only getting ill will."

Catherine submitted, and though sorry to think that Isabella should be
doing wrong, felt greatly relieved by Mr. Allen's approbation of her
own conduct, and truly rejoiced to be preserved by his advice from the
danger of falling into such an error herself. Her escape from being one
of the party to Clifton was now an escape indeed; for what would the
Tilneys have thought of her, if she had broken her promise to them in
order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: John, James and Isabella have made plans to visit Clifton again. They come to collect Catherine, but she has already made plans to take a walk with Henry and Eleanor. The trio put tremendous pressure on Catherine to go, but she remains steadfast in her refusal. This puts a strain on the friendship between Isabella and Catherine. Alhough Isabella has ignored Catherine for several days now, she makes her feel guilty for refusing to come. Isabella even makes a snide comment that Catherine has "no great struggle" in choosing between the trio and the Tilneys, a comment that bothers Catherine enough to pull away from Isabella. John takes the initiative and, without Catherine's knowledge, tells Eleanor that Catherine cannot go for the walk. When John tells her this, Catherine is outraged and immediately leaves to join Henry and Eleanor and apologize for John's behavior. John calls Catherine "obstinate," but James restrains him from chasing after her. Catherine runs to the Tilney's Bath residence and explains what happened, with her apologies. There she meets General Tilney for the first time, and he is very gracious to her. Catherine spends some time talking to Eleanor and the General, and at the end of their conversation, the General invites Catherine to dine with them some day soon. Catherine returns to the Allens'. She uses their disapproval of the Clifton scheme to justify not joining that group. Mr. Allen even advises Catherine not to go out with John Thorpe any more, and Catherine gladly agrees


prompt:
Chapter: The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for
her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.
They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
from almost every opening in Bath.

"I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, "without thinking of the south of France."

"You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised.

"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?"

"Why not?"

"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better
books."

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time."

"Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."

"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on,
refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise
I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most
interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to
observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on
it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion."

"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly."

"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate
simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
a good little girl working your sampler at home!"

"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?"

"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
upon the binding."

"Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not
suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall
be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way."

"I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but
it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?"

"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking
a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a
very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it
was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or
refinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised
in that one word."

"While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you,
without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come,
Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost
propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we
like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of
reading?"

"To say the truth, I do not much like any other."

"Indeed!"

"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and
do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
interested in. Can you?"

"Yes, I am fond of history."

"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I
often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,
their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and
invention is what delights me in other books."

"Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their
flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
am fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with
the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence
in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,
I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are
embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up,
I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with
much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if
the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."

"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have
two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small
circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the
writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it
is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,
which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be
labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck
me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,
I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on
purpose to do it."

"That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what
no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe
that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher
aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own
method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as
synonymous."

"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been
as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their
letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they
can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is
at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my
life at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might
sometimes be used as synonymous words."

"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty
of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may
perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of
being able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been
taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not
have written at all."

Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the
eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste:
and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little
profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea
to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to
contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof
of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything
more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young
man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present
instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared
that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and
a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens
and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much
wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy
transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which
he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the
enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly
found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an
easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short
disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,
who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have
heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London."

Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?"

"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is
to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet."

"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?"

"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder
and everything of the kind."

"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts
have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper
measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming
to effect."

"Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much."

The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as
you can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound
nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,
discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit."

"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."

"Riot! What riot?"

"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with
a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all
your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light
Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the
moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a
simpleton in general."

Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in
general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways."

"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them."

"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present."

"What am I to do?"

"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women."

"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women
in the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I
happen to be in company."

"That is not enough. Be more serious."

"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half."

"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman
at all, or an unkind one of me."

It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must
always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready
to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it
ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended
her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing
herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine,
petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after
the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only
difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.

The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James
had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little
effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the
morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard
of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into
the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was
loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in
the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she
soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at
eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy
them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the
scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a
soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and
John drove Maria."

Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the
arrangement.

"Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.
She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her
taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if
they pressed me ever so much."

Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish
you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go."

"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
when you overtook us."

Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing
that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to
resent her resistance any longer.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The morning arrives with no fresh invitations from James, Isabella, and John. Catherine goes on her walk with Henry and Eleanor. Catherine, timid from her encounter with John, mentions novels, but suggests that Henry might not read them since they are not "clever enough" for gentlemen like him. Henry responds that those who have no pleasure in a novel must be "intolerably stupid. Henry allows himself a little vanity by noting the "hundreds and hundreds" of novels that he has read. Henry quibbles with Catherine's use of the word "nice," revealing himself to be a linguistic perfectionist, for which Eleanor playfully chides him. Catherine notes how much she prefers novels to history books, and Henry tries to defend historians and the value of the books they write. The Tilneys then begin to discuss the landscape in terms of drawing, and Catherine soon finds herself out of her element. She knows none of the artistic terms, and is a little ashamed of her ignorance. The narrator defends Catherine by noting that many men are attracted to well-mannered women with an ignorant mind if they are eager to learn. After Catherine asks many questions, Henry begins teaching her to see the world through the eyes of an artist, and is satisfied that she has "a good deal of natural taste. Catherine notes that something "shocking will soon come out in London," referring to a new Gothic novel; but Eleanor mistakenly thinks Catherine means something like a riot or a conspiracy of war. Henry makes light fun of the intelligence of women. Eleanor assures Catherine that he does not really think this way, but Henry remains playfully defiant. Upon returning to Bath, Catherine discovers from one of Isabella's younger sisters that James, Isabella, and John went to Clifton anyway, with one of the other Thorpe sisters


prompt:
Chapter: Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness
in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on
a matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest
state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar's Buildings. The two
youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne's
quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking
the other for some particulars of their yesterday's party. Maria desired
no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately
learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the
world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that
it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the
information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in
detail--that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup,
and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the
water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned
to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed
their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a
delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little,
and Mr. Morland's horse was so tired he could hardly get it along.

Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize
Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was
nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria's intelligence concluded
with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented
as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party.

"She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help
it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because
she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour
again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a
little matter that puts me out of temper."

Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such
happy importance, as engaged all her friend's notice. Maria was without
ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived
you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything."

Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.

"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," continued the other, "compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note?
Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can
judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of
men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent
father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so
agitated!"

Catherine's understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly
darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion,
she cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can
you--can you really be in love with James?"

This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the
fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually
watched in Isabella's every look and action, had, in the course of their
yesterday's party, received the delightful confession of an equal love.
Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine
listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother
and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of
it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those
grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a
return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature
of them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a
sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces
and tears of joy.

Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the
connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her
in tender anticipations. "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much
more attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own."

This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.

"You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland
came to us last Christmas--the very first moment I beheld him--my heart
was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair
done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John
introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before."

Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though
exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
had never in her life thought him handsome.

"I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore
her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought
your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep
a wink all right for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless
nights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer
half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will
not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I
feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded in speaking
of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would
be safe with you."

Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an
ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,
nor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate
sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found,
was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his
situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation
to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son's wishes. "It is impossible," said she, "for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no
doubt of their consenting immediately."

"Morland says exactly the same," replied Isabella; "and yet I dare not
expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it.
Your brother, who might marry anybody!"

Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.

"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify."

"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify
nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for
myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother
would be my only choice."

This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,
gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than
in uttering the grand idea. "I am sure they will consent," was her
frequent declaration; "I am sure they will be delighted with you."

"For my own part," said Isabella, "my wishes are so moderate that the
smallest income in nature would be enough for me. Where people are
really attached, poverty itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would
not settle in London for the universe. A cottage in some retired village
would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas about Richmond."

"Richmond!" cried Catherine. "You must settle near Fullerton. You must
be near us."

"I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not. If I can but be near you,
I shall be satisfied. But this is idle talking! I will not allow myself
to think of such things, till we have your father's answer. Morland
says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.
Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know
it will be the death of me."

A reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
to have him gone. "Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's
sake, waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it."

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable
for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.
Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and
who seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's
engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable for their
family, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of
significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure
of curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged younger sisters. To
Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither
kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would
hardly have forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency been less their
friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the sagacity of
their "I know what"; and the evening was spent in a sort of war of wit,
a display of family ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an affected
secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.

Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before
the delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time
of reasonable expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more
desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked herself into a
state of real distress. But when it did come, where could distress
be found? "I have had no difficulty in gaining the consent of my kind
parents, and am promised that everything in their power shall be done to
forward my happiness," were the first three lines, and in one moment
all was joyful security. The brightest glow was instantly spread over
Isabella's features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits
became almost too high for control, and she called herself without
scruple the happiest of mortals.

Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her son, her
visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was "dear
John" and "dear Catherine" at every word; "dear Anne and dear Maria"
must immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two "dears" at
once before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child
had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not only
bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation of being one of the finest
fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences in his praise.

The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's
promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to
be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
disinterested spirit took no concern. She knew enough to feel secure of
an honourable and speedy establishment, and her imagination took a rapid
flight over its attendant felicities. She saw herself at the end of
a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at
Fullerton, the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a
carriage at her command, a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant
exhibition of hoop rings on her finger.

When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John Thorpe, who had
only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London, prepared to set
off. "Well, Miss Morland," said he, on finding her alone in the parlour,
"I am come to bid you good-bye." Catherine wished him a good journey.
Without appearing to hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about,
hummed a tune, and seemed wholly self-occupied.

"Shall not you be late at Devizes?" said Catherine. He made no answer;
but after a minute's silence burst out with, "A famous good thing this
marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland? I say it is no bad notion."

"I am sure I think it a very good one."

"Do you? That's honest, by heavens! I am glad you are no enemy to
matrimony, however. Did you ever hear the old song 'Going to One Wedding
Brings on Another?' I say, you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope."

"Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if possible."

"And then you know"--twisting himself about and forcing a foolish
laugh--"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old
song."

"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
Miss Tilney today, and must now be going home."

"Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry. Who knows when we may
be together again? Not but that I shall be down again by the end of a
fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me."

"Then why do you stay away so long?" replied Catherine--finding that he
waited for an answer.

"That is kind of you, however--kind and good-natured. I shall not forget
it in a hurry. But you have more good nature and all that, than anybody
living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only
good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you
have such--upon my soul, I do not know anybody like you."

"Oh! dear, there are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a
great deal better. Good morning to you."

"But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my respects at Fullerton
before it is long, if not disagreeable."

"Pray do. My father and mother will be very glad to see you."

"And I hope--I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be sorry to see me."

"Oh! dear, not at all. There are very few people I am sorry to see.
Company is always cheerful."

"That is just my way of thinking. Give me but a little cheerful company,
let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where
I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I. And
I am heartily glad to hear you say the same. But I have a notion, Miss
Morland, you and I think pretty much alike upon most matters."

"Perhaps we may; but it is more than I ever thought of. And as to most
matters, to say the truth, there are not many that I know my own mind
about."

"By Jove, no more do I. It is not my way to bother my brains with what
does not concern me. My notion of things is simple enough. Let me only
have the girl I like, say I, with a comfortable house over my head, and
what care I for all the rest? Fortune is nothing. I am sure of a good
income of my own; and if she had not a penny, why, so much the better."

"Very true. I think like you there. If there is a good fortune on one
side, there can be no occasion for any on the other. No matter which
has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea of one great fortune
looking out for another. And to marry for money I think the wickedest
thing in existence. Good day. We shall be very glad to see you at
Fullerton, whenever it is convenient." And away she went. It was not in
the power of all his gallantry to detain her longer. With such news to
communicate, and such a visit to prepare for, her departure was not
to be delayed by anything in his nature to urge; and she hurried away,
leaving him to the undivided consciousness of his own happy address, and
her explicit encouragement.

The agitation which she had herself experienced on first learning her
brother's engagement made her expect to raise no inconsiderable emotion
in Mr. and Mrs. Allen, by the communication of the wonderful event. How
great was her disappointment! The important affair, which many words of
preparation ushered in, had been foreseen by them both ever since
her brother's arrival; and all that they felt on the occasion was
comprehended in a wish for the young people's happiness, with a remark,
on the gentleman's side, in favour of Isabella's beauty, and on the
lady's, of her great good luck. It was to Catherine the most surprising
insensibility. The disclosure, however, of the great secret of James's
going to Fullerton the day before, did raise some emotion in Mrs. Allen.
She could not listen to that with perfect calmness, but repeatedly
regretted the necessity of its concealment, wished she could have known
his intention, wished she could have seen him before he went, as she
should certainly have troubled him with her best regards to his father
and mother, and her kind compliments to all the Skinners.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Catherine receives a note from Isabella, bidding her to visit as soon as possible. Catherine goes to Isabella's and discovers that her friend is engaged to James. Isabella praises James, and expresses her worries over his parents' consent to the marriage. Catherine assures her their consent is certain. Isabella expresses some doubt due to her relative poverty compared to James, for she has not yet realized that the Morlands are not that much richer than her own family. Catherine spends the rest of the day discussing the details with the Thorpes, and the next day a letter arrives from James telling of his parents' consent. The chapter ends in a brief scene between Catherine and John Thorpe, who is leaving Bath for several weeks. John hints that he is interested in marrying Catherine, but she is unaware of his intentions. John leaves Bath convinced that Catherine wishes to marry him.


prompt:
Chapter: Catherine's expectations of pleasure from her visit in Milsom Street
were so very high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly,
though she was most politely received by General Tilney, and kindly
welcomed by his daughter, though Henry was at home, and no one else of
the party, she found, on her return, without spending many hours in
the examination of her feelings, that she had gone to her appointment
preparing for happiness which it had not afforded. Instead of finding
herself improved in acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead
of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a
family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable;
and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite of his
thanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been a release to get
away from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not
be General Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and
good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not
be accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of
enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have
been accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own
stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave
a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride, insufferable
haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very
high, and this made it certain. Such insolence of behaviour as Miss
Tilney's she had never heard of in her life! Not to do the honours of
her house with common good breeding! To behave to her guest with such
superciliousness! Hardly even to speak to her!"

"But it was not so bad as that, Isabella; there was no superciliousness;
she was very civil."

"Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared
so attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are
incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?"

"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits."

"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."

"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!
Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has
the most constant heart."

"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed
to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."

"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's
judgment--"

"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
them at the rooms."

"And must I go?"

"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled."

"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But
do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will
be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg;
that is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to
death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he
guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall
insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself."

Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or
sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.
The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss
Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.

Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for
the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had
never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She
looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that
some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her
eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.
His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for,
within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of
dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it
possible. From the latter circumstance it may be presumed that, whatever
might be our heroine's opinion of him, his admiration of her was not
of a very dangerous kind; not likely to produce animosities between the
brothers, nor persecutions to the lady. He cannot be the instigator of
the three villains in horsemen's greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter
be forced into a traveling-chaise and four, which will drive off with
incredible speed. Catherine, meanwhile, undisturbed by presentiments of
such an evil, or of any evil at all, except that of having but a short
set to dance down, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Tilney,
listening with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and, in finding him
irresistible, becoming so herself.

At the end of the first dance, Captain Tilney came towards them again,
and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. They
retired whispering together; and, though her delicate sensibility did
not take immediate alarm, and lay it down as fact, that Captain Tilney
must have heard some malevolent misrepresentation of her, which he now
hastened to communicate to his brother, in the hope of separating them
forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without
very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration;
and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when
they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting
to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection
to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to
her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss
Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to
the other, and he immediately walked away.

"Your brother will not mind it, I know," said she, "because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him
to think of it. I suppose he saw Isabella sitting down, and fancied she
might wish for a partner; but he is quite mistaken, for she would not
dance upon any account in the world."

Henry smiled, and said, "How very little trouble it can give you to
understand the motive of other people's actions."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"With you, it is not, How is such a one likely to be influenced, What
is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age,
situation, and probable habits of life considered--but, How should I be
influenced, What would be my inducement in acting so and so?"

"I do not understand you."

"Then we are on very unequal terms, for I understand you perfectly
well."

"Me? Yes; I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible."

"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."

"But pray tell me what you mean."

"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us."

"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid."

"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being
superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world."

Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were
verified. There was a something, however, in his words which repaid her
for the pain of confusion; and that something occupied her mind so much
that she drew back for some time, forgetting to speak or to listen, and
almost forgetting where she was; till, roused by the voice of Isabella,
she looked up and saw her with Captain Tilney preparing to give them
hands across.

Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation of this
extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
was not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her
astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.

"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
dance."

"And did Isabella never change her mind before?"

"Oh! But, because--And your brother! After what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?"

"I cannot take surprise to myself on that head. You bid me be surprised
on your friend's account, and therefore I am; but as for my brother, his
conduct in the business, I must own, has been no more than I believed
him perfectly equal to. The fairness of your friend was an open
attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by
yourself."

"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general."

"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be
to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;
and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by
no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour."

The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse
till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room
arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at your
surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle!
Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given
the world to sit still."

"Then why did not you?"

"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I
abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he
would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him
to excuse me, and get some other partner--but no, not he; after aspiring
to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of;
and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with
me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to
prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches
and compliments; and so--and so then I found there would be no peace if
I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him,
might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he
would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am
so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his
nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was
upon us."

"He is very handsome indeed."

"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him
in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid
complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly
conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my
way."

When the young ladies next met, they had a far more interesting subject
to discuss. James Morland's second letter was then received, and the
kind intentions of his father fully explained. A living, of which Mr.
Morland was himself patron and incumbent, of about four hundred pounds
yearly value, was to be resigned to his son as soon as he should be
old enough to take it; no trifling deduction from the family income, no
niggardly assignment to one of ten children. An estate of at least equal
value, moreover, was assured as his future inheritance.

James expressed himself on the occasion with becoming gratitude; and
the necessity of waiting between two and three years before they could
marry, being, however unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne
by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as
unfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now
entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily
congratulated Isabella on having everything so pleasantly settled.

"It is very charming indeed," said Isabella, with a grave face. "Mr.
Morland has behaved vastly handsome indeed," said the gentle Mrs.
Thorpe, looking anxiously at her daughter. "I only wish I could do as
much. One could not expect more from him, you know. If he finds he
can do more by and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an
excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin
on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do
not consider how little you ever want, my dear."

"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to
be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an
income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For
myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself."

"I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in
the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young
woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say
when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child--but do not let us distress
our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so
very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man;
and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a
suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am
sure he must be a most liberal-minded man."

"Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to
do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these
insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised
to do as much as he can afford."

Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much
smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that
makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if
our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should
not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.
There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are
to pass before your brother can hold the living."

"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see
into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a
noble honest affection."

Catherine's uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to
believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella's
regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and
amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought
otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the
most gratifying kindness.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Henry asks the Morlands for Catherine's hand in marriage. They are surprised, but they quickly give their consent to the marriage. However, in order to be proper, they refuse to allow the marriage until the General has given his own consent. Henry and Catherine also want the General's consent, but they fear that it will be some time before he will break down and agree to the union. Fortunately, in a few months Eleanor becomes engaged and then married to a wealthy noble. This puts the General in a good mood, and when Eleanor and her husband ask the General to allow Henry's marriage, the General agrees--but only after doing some research and discovering that the Morlands are not at all as poor as John Thorpe had claimed they were. The General sends a letter to Mr. Morland giving his assent, and Henry and Catherine are married.


prompt:
Chapter: I FIRST heard of Antonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey
across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then;
I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia
relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I
traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the "hands"
on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to
work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider
than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we
set out together to try our fortunes in a new world.

We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with
each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered
him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a
"Life of Jesse James," which I remember as one of the most satisfactory
books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a
friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we
were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our
confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been
almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of
distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of
different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons
were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an
Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the
immigrant car ahead there was a family from "across the water" whose
destination was the same as ours.

"They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she
can say is 'We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.' She's not much older than you,
twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you
want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes,
too!"

This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to
"Jesse James." Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to
get diseases from foreigners.

I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long
day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so
many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about
Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.

I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when
we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled
down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with
lanterns. I could n't see any town, or even distant lights; we were
surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its
long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood
huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew
this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The
woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little
tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old
man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding
oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts.
Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting
and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time
I had ever heard a foreign tongue.

Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: "Hello, are you
Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto
Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy,
ain't you scared to come so far west?"

I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might
have stepped out of the pages of "Jesse James." He wore a sombrero hat,
with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache
were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and
ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across
one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top
of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely
this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his
high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather
slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a
long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to
a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign
family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the
front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the
wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into
the empty darkness, and we followed them.

I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon
began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed.
Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and
peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no
fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I
could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land:
not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating, I knew, because often
our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and
lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was
left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's
jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a
familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of
heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and
mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me
at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to
the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon
jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick.
If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and
that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night:
here, I felt, what would be would be.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Jim first hears of Antonia on a journey across America by train. He is ten years old and his mother and father have recently died, so now he's moving from his home in Virginia out to Nebraska to live with his grandparents. He is traveling with a boy named Jake Marpole who is going to be a farmhand for his grandparents. On the way, Jake buys Jim a book called The Life of Jesse James. They chat with a conductor who acts like a tour guide for them as they drive through the different states. The conductor tells the that there is an immigrant family on board the train who is also travelling to Black Hawk, Nebraska. They have a daughter who is twelve or thirteen and doesn't speak much English. But Jim elects not to go talk to them. Jake wakes up Jim when they get to Black Hawk. It is nighttime. As they leave the train, Jim sees the Shimerdas standing on the train platform. They have four children altogether. Jim listens to them speaking in a foreign tongue. A man comes along and introduces himself to Jim as Otto Fuchs. He works for Jim's grandfather and is there to drive both Jim and Jake out to the farm. Jim thinks Otto looks like he came from the book about Jesse James. He looks like a cowboy. He's missing the top part of his left ear and is wearing boots. Jim gets in the back of the wagon and they ride off. Jim is uncomfortable in the back of the wagon. He looks out and sees nothing but plain country with no fences or buildings. He looks up; he doesn't think that his parents are looking down at him from above because they wouldn't know to look for him in Nebraska. He feels erased in the vastness of the land. Jim does not say his prayers that night.