“Are you coming, sir?” cried Richard, as he opened the street-door.
CHAPTER XIV.
The parson joined Mr. Richard Avenel on the road. It was a fine night, and the moon clear and shining.
“So, then,” said Mr. Richard, thoughtfully, “poor Jane, who was always the drudge of the family, has contrived to bring up her son well; and the boy is really what you say, eh,—could make a figure at college?”
“I am sure of it,” said the parson, hooking himself on to the arm which Mr. Avenel proffered.
“I should like to see him,” said Richard. “Has he any manner? Is he genteel, or a mere country lout?”
“Indeed, he speaks with so much propriety, and has so much modest dignity about him, that there’s many a rich gentleman who would be proud of such a son.”
“It is odd,” observed Richard, “what a difference there is in families. There’s Jane, now, who can’t read nor write, and was just fit to be a workman’s wife, had not a thought above her station; and when I think of my poor sister Nora—you would not believe it, sir, but she was the most elegant creature in the world,—yes, even as a child (she was but a child when I went off to America). And often, as I was getting on in life, often I used to say to myself, ‘My little Nora shall be a lady after all.’ Poor thing—but she died young.” Richard’s voice grew husky.
The parson kindly pressed the arm on which he leaned, and said, after a pause,—