CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG FATHER.
Life is too short for mean anxieties;
Soul! thou must work, though blindfold.
KINGSLEY.—The Saints' Tragedy.
The next morning Cecil had almost regained his cheerfulness. The thought of last night's loss would occasionally dash his spirits, for seven pounds, in his situation, was not a trifling sum.
"When is your mother going to send us any money?" he said; "does she imagine we can get on without it?"
"I expect her every day; but perhaps, dear, she has not been able to save any."
"Pshaw! if she chose——!"
"When will your opera be ready, dearest?"
"I'm sure I don't know—but soon, I hope. Something must be done, Blanche, for our condition is really pitiable. Thank God, we have no children!"
Blanche trembled, and coloured violently as he said this; but summoning courage, she laid her hand upon his shoulder and asked,—