A company all clad in black assembled at the dinner-table of Maurice Malherb. The family still mourned their hope, while Mr. Norcot's loss was even more recent. He bore himself with great correctness and resignation. The narrative of his uncle's sensational death was held back until later in the evening; out a matter more pressing filled Mr. Malherb's mind, and he hurried the ladies from the table when dessert was done, that he might open his project.
"How do you find Grace bear herself towards you now?" began the farmer abruptly, when he found himself alone with his future son-in-law.
"Alas! 'A fellow that lives in a windmill has not a more whimsical dwelling than the heart of a man lodged in a woman.' But I must be patient."
Malherb frowned.
"She's a fool—yet a fool may make the heart of the wise ache. Who shall escape a fool's folly if that fool be his daughter?"
"Tut, tut! Don't call her a fool. She is young—still in her halcyon hours. As Horace——"
"Listen to me, Peter. You are a reasonable man, and thank your God that it is so, for they grow rare. Now you will readily understand my feelings when my son died."
"I died myself when I pictured your sufferings, Mr. Malherb.
"'World-wasting Time, thou worker of our woes,
Thou keen-edged razor of our famous name.'"
"Even so. To be frank and avoid sentiment, I've put my life and soul into this place. I've made it a strong fortress for those to come. I have built and planted with my thoughts upon my son. And then, while the mortar was a-drying and the young larches getting their first root-hold, he fell. Think of what that meant to me."