| Oh, death were welcome!—Coleridge. |
On reaching Norfolk, Lyon Berners drove at once to an obscure tavern down by the wharves, and near the market. Here he found good stabling for his horses and wagon, and decent accommodation for himself and wife.
“Come to market, I reckon, father?” suggested the landlord, taking the stump of an old pipe from his mouth for the purpose.
“Yes,” answered Lyon Berners, as “farmer Howe,” taking off his broad-brimmed hat, handing it to Sybil, and then sinking slowly and heavily into a chair, like a very weary old man.
“Your daughter, I reckon, farmer?” continued the landlord, pointing to Sybil with the stem of his pipe.
“My only girl,” answered Lyon Berners, evasively.
“And no boys?” inquired the landlord.
“No boys,” replied Lyon.
“That’s a pity; on a farm too. But you must try to get a good husband for the girl, and that will be all one as a boy of your own! Never had any children but this, farmer, or did you have the misfortune to lose ’em?”
“I never had but this one girl,” answered Lyon Berners still evasively.