"No wonder. Work must be a happy thing," said, with a sigh, the young
Earl of Cairnforth.
Helen's heart smote her for having let the conversation drift into this direction, as it did occasionally when, from their long familiarity with him, they forgot how he must feel about many things, natural enough to them, but to him, unto whom the outer world, with all its duties, energies, enjoyments, could never be any thing but a name, full of sharpest pain. She said, after a few minutes watching of the grave, still face—not exactly sad, but only very still, very grave—
"Just look at papa, how happy he is among those books you sent for!
Your plan of his arranging the library is the delight of his life."
"Is it? I am so glad," said the earl, brightening up at once. 'What a good thing I thought of it!"
"You always do think of every thing that is good and kind," said Helen, softly.
"Thank you," and the shadow passed away, as any trifling pleasure always had power to make it pass. Sometimes Helen speculated vaguely on what a grand sort of man the earl would have been had he been like other people —how cheerful, how active, how energetic and wise. But then one never knows how far circumstances create and unfold character. We often learn as much by what is withheld as by what is enjoyed.
"Helen," he said, moving his chair a little nearer her—he had brought one good thing from London, a self-acting chair, in which he could wheel himself about easily, and liked doing it—"I wonder whether your father would have taken as much pleasure in his books thirty years ago. Do you think one could fill up one's whole life with reading and study?"
"I can not say; I'm not clever myself, you know."
"Oh, but you are—with a sort of practical cleverness. And so is Alick, in his own way. How happy Alick must be, going out into the world, with plenty to do all day long! How bright he looked this morning!"
"He sees only the sunny side of things, he is still no more than a boy."