"Is it possible?" cried the lady, throwing up her hands in amaze. "You, who would only consent to come, on condition that you need not be introduced, and play the agreeable to the young ladies; well, well! who would have thought it, Paul?"
"The generality of young ladies are bores," was the reply. "I did not expect to meet such a fresh faced, lovely young girl; for society never allows them to remain so, if it gets hold of them."
"It will never be so with these girls," said Mrs. Raymond. "They have too sensible and lovely a mother, and besides, they are a family much devoted among themselves; there are five sisters, you will remember my telling you about the other one, Ernestine, she sang like an angel; and another one is an artist, the youngest a cripple, and—well they all seem to live solely for each other, so require little from society. I admire them all very much."
"So do I, from what I hear," said the gentleman, getting up from his grassy seat, and glancing down at the bank. "Shall I assist you?"
"No, indeed; I'm not old yet, if I am grey," laughed Mrs. Raymond, jumping nimbly up to prove her assertion. "I don't know what the ladies will say, Paul, to see you finally succumbing to feminine attractions; they have all eyed you in your seclusion with evident regret. You know there is something singularly attractive about a widower, young or old; though I suppose you have found that out," she added with a sister's fond belief that her brother is irresistible in every way.
"Yes, I dislike conceit; but I have found out a few things in the last four years," he answered, smiling; then uttering a little exclamation of disappointment, as they reached the foot of the hill, and found that Kittie had disappeared from the bank.
"Great oaks from little acorns grow." Sometimes they do in books, sometimes they do out; and this afternoon in the sunshiny woods, two little acorns had been planted. One of them was when Paul Murray had looked with careless eyes into Kittie Dering's face, and found in its bright girlish sweetness, what had been lacking for him, in any woman's face since he lost his wife; namely—interest. He was a grave, thoughtful faced man, with just a dash of grey on his temples, and a listless air of world-weariness, that made him look beyond his years; for he was only twenty-eight; and yet he had had a vigorous cuffing from the reed-shaken hand of Fortune, and had come to regard himself with a sort of pitying disapprobation, such as falls upon us when we know we have a duty to perform, yet think it too great, and hesitate between self-condolence and accusation.
He had seen the day of wild oats, and had sown them, but had drawn back ere they sprung into life and choked out all else. He had had riches and lost them; had married a lovely loving girl, only to have her taken from him in one short year; then to deaden his grief he had gone to work, regained his wealth, after which he left his infant daughter in tender hands, and had gone abroad, only to again lose all he had in an unfortunate speculation, which brought him home, where he had again gone to work, but with a listless, disinterested way,—that had brought him little success.
So, to-day, he was a lawyer, struggling as though he had just entered the bar. So, I say, he felt like a man without an incentive. To be sure, there was his little daughter, but then he had really seen so little of the child, and for a time there had been almost a bitter feeling against her, because, in gaining her life, she had taken her young mother's, and left him desolate; and then if he was to die, she was amply provided for by her grandmother. He had yet to learn, that, though severely dealt with, he had still much to live for.
The other little acorn had fallen in kindred ground, in no less place, than the loving little heart of Pansy Murray.