And all this while my father seemed in thought; and so, with my arm over my mother's chair, and my hand in hers, I answered my mother's questions, sometimes by a stammer, sometimes by a violent effort at volubility; when at some interrogatory that went tingling right to my heart I turned uneasily, and there were my father's eyes fixed on mine, fixed as they had been when, and none knew why, I pined and languished, and my father said, "He must go to school;" fixed with quiet, watchful tenderness. Ah, no! his thoughts had not been on the Great Work; he had been deep in the pages of that less worthy one for which he had yet more an author's paternal care. I met those eyes and yearned to throw myself on his heart and tell him all. Tell him what? Ma'am, I no more knew what to tell him than I know what that black thing was which has so worried me all this blessed evening!
"Pisistratus," said my father, softly, "I fear you have forgotten the saffron bag."
"No, indeed, sir," said I, smiling.
"He," resumed my father, "he who wears the saffron bag has more cheerful, settled spirits than you seem to have, my poor boy."
"My dear Austin, his spirits are very good, I think," said my mother, anxiously.
My father shook his head; then he took two or three turns about the room.
"Shall I ring for candles, sir? It is getting dark; you will wish to read."
"No, Pisistratus, it is you who shall read; and this hour of twilight best suits the book I am about to open to you."
So saying, he drew a chair between me and my mother and seated himself gravely, looking down a long time in silence, then turning his eyes to each of us alternately.
"My dear wife," said he, at length, almost solemnly, "I am going to speak of myself as I was before I knew you."