“And the fire’s out!”
“We shall try your skill in re-lighting it, dear Vincent,” said his mother.
The boy gazed thoughtfully into her pale thin face, and for the first time since he had come to Willow Cottage, Vincent heaved a sigh. “Poverty is a trial—a great trial,” was his silent reflection; “but when I am old enough to earn my own living and hers, she shall never know its bitterness more.”
Clemence regretted less the pause in her step-son’s attendance at school, as the weather had become unusually severe. Winter, who for a few days had seemed on the point of yielding up his empire to his smiling successor, now with fiercer fury than ever resumed his iron sway. Standing-water froze even within the cottage, the windows were dim with frost, the little garden was one sheet of snow, and even the postman made his way with difficulty along the road. It was seldom that he stopped at the gate of Willow Cottage, and he never did so without sending a thrill of hope, not unmingled with fear, through the bosom of Clemence Effingham. The morning after the breaking up of the academy he brought a letter for Vincent.
“It is Louisa’s hand,” called out the boy, as he tramped back through the snow to the cottage door, at which Clemence was impatiently waiting; “I’m glad that she has answered my note at last. She is such a lazy girl with her pen!”
“Come and read it comfortably by the fire,” said his step-mother, concealing her own disappointment.
“Pro bono publico, I suppose, you and I being all the public at hand.” Vincent threw himself down in front of the cheerful blaze. “Now for a young lady’s epistle—written on dainty pink paper and perfumed—to be given with sundry notes and annotations by the learned Vincent Effingham:—
“My dear Vincent,
“You ask me how I like our new house. What a question! Beaumont Street after Belgrave Square! I feel as if I were imprisoned in a band-box! [I wish she could see our cottage!] Our grand piano blocks up half our sitting-room—a miserable relic of grandeur, which only serves to incommode us, since none of us have the heart to touch it. The furniture of the house is wretched—fancy chintz-covered chairs and a horse-hair sofa! [Fancy rush-bottomed chairs, and no sofa at all!] Aunt Selina is in shocking spirits [alias temper], has not appetite for food [while we have not food for our appetite], and is always painfully recurring to the past. Our horse—you know we have now only one—has fallen lame “Pray give my love to dear Mrs. Effingham. I miss both her and you very much. I am sure that she will let me know if she receives any tidings of papa.”