"Poorly, father, poorly. Elbridge made a bad choice when he bought it—greatly out of repair—rents come slowly."
"In a word, the old story, the widow gets nothing again from the city. I had hopes you would be able to bring her some returns this time, for she needs it sadly."
"I do the best I can, but money's not to be got out of stone walls."
"And you have three new houses which pay well," old Sylvester continued, turning his calm blue eye steadily upon his son.
"Capital—best in the city! Already worth twice I gave for 'em. The city grows and I grow!"
"My son, do you never think of that other house reserved for us all?"
William Peabody was about to answer, it was nonsense for a man only sixty and in sound condition of body and mind to think too much of that, when his eye, ranging across the fields, espied in shadow as it were, through the dim atmosphere, the mist clearing away a little in that direction, an old sorrel horse—a long settler with the family and well-known to all its members—staggering about feebly in a distant orchard, and in her wanderings stumbling against the trees.—"Is old Sorrel blind?" he asked, shading his own eyes from the light.
"She is, William," old Sylvester replied; "her sight went from her last New-Year's day."
"My birth-day," said the merchant, a sudden pallor coming upon his countenance.
"Yes, you and old Sorrel are birth-mates, my son."