“So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and vanities, and disappointments it has produced—not even poor little Blanche allowed any comfort—I am almost sick at heart with thinking Cocksmoor was the excuse!”
“Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not been tying parcels all day.”
“I had rather do that than—But that is the ‘Fox and the Grapes,’” said Ethel, smiling. “What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t they, papa? Why is it worth while to go and search for a day’s pleasuring?”
“Ethel, my child! I don’t like to hear you talk so,” said Dr. May, looking anxiously at her. “It may be too true, but it is not youthful nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care—”
“Oh, no, papa!” said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily. “You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough—only at home—”
And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm, and shed a few tears.
“The fact is, she is tired out,” said Dr. May soothingly, yet half laughing. “She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by. I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in the world.”
“Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at Cocksmoor!”
“They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic.”