“I do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,” said Flora, “but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.”
The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty young mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful pride. Norman was perfectly entranced—he had never seen his sister so charming or so admirable, between her delight in her infant, and her self-devotion to the good of her husband and her country—acting so wisely, and speaking so considerately; and praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He would never have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs. Rivers had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day; and, besides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, where he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself of her state of spirits.
Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very happy in these visits—mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms than Flora’s hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to ring for lights.
“Not yet,” he said. “Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give yourself a little rest?”
“I want you to hear George’s address. Norman has been looking at it, and I hope you will not think it too strong,” and she turned, so that the light might fall on the paper.
“Let me see,” said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it.
“This is a rough copy, too much scratched for you to make out.”
She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly—Norman’s touches, above all; and Flora’s reading had dovetailed all so neatly together that no one knew where the joins were. “I will copy it fairly,” she said, “if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and ask whether he thinks it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too; he would be more gratified if he saw it first, in private, and thought himself consulted.”
Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a desk of her blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight.
“Flora, my dear,” he said, “this must not be. Have I not told you that you must be content to rest?”