The Log House by the Lake: A Tale of Canada

It was late in the afternoon when Mr Philip Ashton walked up to the door of his residence in Portman-square. His hand touched the knocker irresolutely. “It must be done,” he said to himself. “May strength be given to all of them to bear the blow!” His hand shook as he rapped. The hall door flew open, a servant in handsome livery stood ready to take his hat and gloves. As he entered the drawing-room his wife and daughters rose to welcome him, with affection beaming in their eyes, as did his three sons, who had just arrived at home from different directions.
“Dear papa, you are not well,” exclaimed Sophy, his eldest daughter, leading him to a seat.
“Philip, what is the matter?” asked his wife, leaning over him.
“Sit down, dears, and I will tell you,” he answered, pressing her hand. “A severe trial has come upon us, but—”
“Dear Leonard, nothing has happened to him, I pray?” gasped out Mrs Ashton. Leonard was a sailor son, the only one now absent.
“Thank Heaven he is well; I had a letter from him only to-day,” answered Mr Ashton. “Many mercies are granted us, and I trust, therefore, that you will all submit to be deprived, without murmuring, of the wealth we hitherto have thought our own. Dear ones, the law-suit has been decided against us!”
The young Ashtons were silent for some minutes, but presently recovered themselves.
“We can all work,” exclaimed the three sons, in a breath.
“Our happiness does not consist in this,” said Sophy, glancing round the room, “We will make the smallest cottage comfortable for you, mamma.”
“I am sure we can, and do all the work ourselves,” cried Fanny, her next sister.
“I can make a pudding, and churn, and could soon learn how to milk a cow,” said Agnes, the third daughter, laughing. “I have always wished to live in a cottage in the country.”