"It was a blow, though I should have been prepared for it. My father is a man of iron will, Nansie; there is no moving him, once he has resolved upon a course. I dare say this inflexibility has helped him to grow rich, but it is a hard thing for us. And now, my dear, let us talk no more of this at present; it troubles me."
They diverged into other subjects, and Kingsley soon regained his lightness of spirits. They passed into an open glade with trees all around.
"A beautiful spot," said Kingsley; "and so suitable!"
"For what, dear?"
"For the caravan; one could be happy here for a long time. But that castle is in the air, is it not, my love?"
[CHAPTER XVI.]
When Mr. Loveday, the bookseller in Church Alley, heard of his brother's death in a letter which Nansie wrote to him, he fell to reproaching himself for the small grief he experienced at the news. The intelligence did not, indeed, create within him any profound impression. He and his brother had been separated for a great many years, and the bond of love which had united them in their childhood had become weaker and weaker till it scarcely held together. It is true that death strengthened it somewhat, but it could never again be what it once was. The humanly selfish cares of life are so engrossing that love which is not in evidence dies gradually away. That "absence makes the heart grow fonder" is as false as are nine out of ten of other sentimental proverbs.
"Timothy," said Mr. Loveday to his new assistant, who was proving himself a perfect treasure, "when little Teddy died you were very sorry."
"I was more than sorry, sir," said Timothy, becoming instantly grave; "I was almost heart-broken."
"Have you got over it?" asked Mr. Loveday.