“And Ellinor,” said he at last, without looking up,—“Lady Ellinor, I mean; she is very—very—”
“Very what, sir?”
“Very handsome still?”
“Handsome! Yes, handsome, certainly; but I thought more of her manner than her face. And then Fanny, Miss Fanny, is so young!”
“Ah!” said my father, murmuring in Greek the celebrated lines of which Pope’s translation is familiar to all,—
“‘Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground.’
“Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor—Lady Ellinor—say that, or her—her husband?”
“Her husband, certainly; Lady Ellinor rather implied than said it.”
“We shall see,” said my father. “Open the window; this room is stifling.”
I opened the window, which looked on the Strand. The noise, the voices, the trampling feet, the rolling wheels, became loudly audible. My father leaned out for some moments, and I stood by his side. He turned to me with a serene face. “Every ant on the hill,” said he, “carries its load, and its home is but made by the burden that it bears. How happy am I! how I should bless God! How light my burden! how secure my home!”