The mother is as beautiful as ever, and far more dear to me, for gratitude has been adding, year by year, to love. There have been times when a harsh word of mine, uttered in the fatigues of business, has touched her, and I have seen that soft eye fill with tears, and I have upbraided myself for causing her one pang. But such things she does not remember, or remembers only to cover with her gentle forgiveness.
Laurence and Enrica are living near us. And the old gentleman, who was Carry’s god-father, sits with me, on sunny days upon the porch, and takes little Paul upon his knee, and wonders if two such daughters as Enrica and Carry are to be found in the world. At twilight we ride over to see Laurence; Jamie mounts with the coachman, little Carry puts on her wide-rimmed Leghorn for the evening visit, and the old gentleman’s plea for Paul can not be denied. The mother, too, is with us, and old Tray comes whisking along, now frolicking before the horses’ heads, and then bounding off after the flight of some belated bird.
Away from that cottage home I seem away from life. Within it, that broad and shadowy future, which lay before me in boyhood and in youth, is garnered—like a fine mist, gathered into drops of crystal.
And when away—those long letters, dating from the cottage home, are what tie me to life. That cherished wife, far dearer to me now than when she wrote that first letter, which seemed a dark veil between me and the future—writes me now as tenderly as then. She narrates in her delicate way all the incidents of the home life; she tells me of their rides, and of their games, and of the new planted trees—of all their sunny days, and of their frolics on the lawn; she tells me how Jamie is studying, and of little Carry’s beauty growing every day, and of roguish Paul—so like his father. And she sends such a kiss from each of them, and bids me such adieu and such “God’s blessing” that it seems as if an angel guarded me.
But this is not all; for Jamie has written a postscript:
——“Dear father,” he says, “mother wishes me to tell you how I am studying. What would you think, father, to have me talk in French to you, when you come back? I wish you would come back, though; the hawthorns are coming out, and the apricot under my window is all full of blossoms. If you should bring me a present, as you almost always do, I would like a fishing rod. Your affectionate son,
Jamie.”
And little Carry has her fine, rambling characters running into a second postscript:
“Why don’t you come, papa; you stay too long; I have ridden the pony twice; once he most threw me off. This is all from
Carry.”