"You have quite a large family,—madam," he said, hurriedly rushing in to break a pause.
"Six! Bless my soul,—six girls," and Mr. Congreve hastily took some snuff to settle his nerves. "Astonishing, I declare. Pity they're not boys,—great pity."
"I would not have it otherwise than it is, sir."
"Humph! well, they're your burden, not mine," said the old man, testily, and twisting uneasily in his chair.
"A burden I am happy and grateful to bear, if burden it be," answered the widow, calmly. "I am thankful they are all mine, my comforts and helps at all times."
"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice softened, as it had done when he called to Jean.
"Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood."
Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood.
He was regarding her intently, and now as she lifted her eyes, softened with this sudden remembrance, he bounced out of his chair, and set his cane down sharply on the hearth.