Lucia's head went down till it almost rested on his knee.
“Father—do you know—where John is?”
“Why—a—of course, Mr. Solley—”
“No, no, father! No!”
“Well, I might inquire around—a—somewhere.”
“No! Oh, promise me you won't ask any one! Promise!”
“Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Gore, very much confused.
“It is no matter,” said Lucia, eagerly.
Mr. Gore thought for several minutes, but no idea seemed to occur to him, and it relieved him to give it up.
Months have a way of making years by a rapid arithmetic, and years that greet us with such little variety of expression are the more apt to step behind with faint reproach and very swiftly. Mr. Solley founded the Institute in 1840, and died. The Solley house stood empty, and Miss Lucia Gore by that time was living alone, except for the elderly maiden, Hannah. Looking at the old elms of Wimberton, grave and orderly, there is much to be said for a vegetable life. There is no right dignity but in the slow growths of time.