“You know, it is just what will happen continually.”
“Of course there will be failures, but this is so abominable, when they had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny shawls! There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away!”
“Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go and see.”
“We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no more to say to—” but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to perceive what a happiness it was that she had not the power of acting on her own impulses.
The twins and their little brother of two years old were christened in the afternoon, and Flora invited the parents to drink tea in the kitchen, and visit Lucy, while Ethel and Mary each carried a baby upstairs to exhibit to Margaret.
Richard, in the meantime, had a conversation with John Taylor, and learned a good deal about the district, and the number of the people. At tea, he began to rehearse his information, and the doctor listened with interest, which put Ethel in happy agitation, believing that the moment was come, and Richard seemed to be only waiting for the conclusion of a long tirade against those who ought to do something for the place, when behold! Blanche was climbing on her father’s knee, begging for one of his Sunday stories.
Etheldred was cruelly disappointed, and could not at first rejoice to see her father able again to occupy himself with his little girl. The narration, in his low tones, roused her from her mood of vexation. It was the story of David, which he told in language scriptural and poetical, so pretty and tender in its simplicity, that she could not choose but attend. Ever and anon there was a glance towards Harry, as if he were secretly likening his own “yellow-haired laddie” to the “shepherd boy, ruddy, and of a fair countenance.”
“So Tom and Blanche,” he concluded, “can you tell me how we may be like the shepherd-boy, David?”
“There aren’t giants now,” said Tom.
“Wrong is a giant,” said his little sister.