The suggestion did not seem to find favor with the others, for they made no reply.
“You never sent off your letter, I think?” resumed he, addressing the younger man.
“Of course not, father,” broke in the female voice. “It was an indignity I could not stoop to.”
“Not stoop to?” cried out Grog, for it is needless to say that it was himself, with his daughter and son-in-law, who formed the group. “I like that,—I like our not stooping when it's crawling we 're come to!”
“Ay, by Jove!” muttered Beecher, ruefully, “that it is, and over a rough road too!”
“Well, I'd have sent the letter,” resumed Grog. “I'd have put it this way: 'You did n't deal harshly with the Dowager; don't treat us worse than her.'”
“Father, father!” cried Lizzy, imploringly, “how unlike you all this is!”
“I know it is, girl,—I know it well enough. Since that six months I passed in Newgate I don't know myself. I 'm not the man I was, nor I never shall be again. That same dull life and its dreary diet have broken up old Grog.” A heavy sigh closed these words, and for some minutes the silence was unbroken.
“There comes a boat up to the landing-place,” cried Beecher, suddenly.
“I must see them, and I will,” said Lizzy, rising, and drawing her shawl around her. “I have more than a mere curiosity to see this Crimean hero and his heroic wife.” It was hard to say in what spirit the words were uttered, so blended was the ardor and the sarcasm in their tone. “Are you coming, father?”