"Yes, I like walking through the dead leaves," said Dora, "only the worst of it is if we go in the woods the boys will throw stones at the squirrels! I cannot think how they can be so cruel!"
"She cannot think how we can be so cruel!" mimicked George, whilst David laughed. "Pooh, Dora! You're so silly!"
"I am not silly at all!" Dora indignantly exclaimed. "And it is cruel!"
"It would be cruel if they maimed the poor little creatures," Dr. Knight agreed, "but," with a sly glance at his sons, "as neither by any chance hits his mark, if I were you, Dora, I would let the boys take shots at the squirrels if it's any amusement to them."
The twins grew very red, and David gave George a kick under the table, which somewhat relieved his feelings; then George returned the favour with interest, no doubt with a like soothing result. After that the breakfast proceeded tranquilly, till Miss Clarke noticed the doctor's face grow grave as he opened the last of his letters. He read the epistle through twice, then rising hastily, and with an apology to the governess, went upstairs to his wife.
Three years before, Mrs. Knight had met with a carriage accident which had nearly cost her her life. For weeks she had lain hovering between life and death, and that time had been accountable for the few grey hairs that streaked the doctor's brown head. She had recovered, that is to say, her life had been spared, but to the end of her days she would in all probability be an invalid, unable to walk, unable even to dress herself, dependent upon the services of others.
In those first days, after the knowledge that she would live had come to her, she had thought life so good and desirable; and then very tenderly her husband had told her the truth. In the first agony of the thought of her helplessness she had wept upon his bosom such sad tears as her eyes had never known before. He had said very little, his sorrow for her had been too deep to admit of many words, but when he had left her he had felt that all happiness had fled. It had been awful to think of his beautiful wife an invalid for life. He had visited his patients as usual, and had repaired again to his wife's bedside. The nurse had slipped from the room, and he had silently taken her place, dreading an outburst of the violent grief he could do so little to comfort. His wife's feeble fingers had closed softly round his strong brown palm as he had tenderly bent over her.
"John," she had whispered, "how I must have grieved you! What a weak, selfish creature you must have thought me! After the anxiety and trouble I have been, to think I should have distressed you with my wicked repinings! Do you know, after you had gone I lay crying for hours, and then after a while my selfishness came home to me. I thought that because God means me to live, He must still have some work for me to do. Don't you think so?"
"Assuredly I do, my dear wife."
"Oh, John, I did not remember this morning that I was railing against the cross God had sent me to bear! It seemed to me that God had deserted me! Do you remember how I always said, looking on some beautiful scene—the sea, or a wide expanse of moor—that I could feel God's presence? Well, to-day, shut up in this room, I had the same sensation. I knew God was near me, a real sustaining presence, and I think He will be near me in the years to come, and with His help I may be able to do my duty to you and the children!"