‘Oh, it would be such rest!’
It was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calm and confidence. Nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, and well-nigh wept over her.
‘How did you come to think of it?’ exclaimed she, as, the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arm-in-arm.
‘I thought of it from the moment when I hoped I might be a resource, a comforter at least.’
‘Not before?’ was the rather odd question.
‘No. The place was forlorn enough without you; but I was not such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and all that.’
‘All that meaning my wickedness,’ said Lucilla. ‘Tell me again. You always did like the sprite even when it was wicked, only you were too good and right-minded.’
‘Too old and too poor.’
‘She is old and poor now,’ said Cilla; ‘worn out and washed out into a mere rag. And you like her the better?’
‘Not washed out!’ he said, as her countenance flushed into more than its wonted loveliness. ‘I used to wish you hadn’t such a face when those insolent fellows talked of you—but you will get up your looks again when I have the care of you. The first college living—there are some that can’t choose but drop before long! The worst is, I am growing no younger!’