“Oh, dear, no! nothing of the sort; I’ve been putting every thing to rights in all the rooms, and they look beautifully.”
“Didn’t they break something?”
“Oh, no, nothing! The little things were good as could be.”
“That Leaning Tower, and that little Diana,” suggested John.
“Oh, dear me, no! I broke those a month ago, and showed them to Mrs. Seymour, and promised to mend them. Oh! she knows all about that.”
“Ah!” said John, “I didn’t know that. Well, Rosa, put every thing up nicely, and divide this money among the girls for extra trouble,” he added, slipping a bill into her hand.
“I’m sure there’s no trouble,” said Rosa. “We all enjoyed it; and I believe everybody did; only I’m sorry it was too much for Mrs. Seymour; she is very delicate.”
“Yes, she is,” said John, as he turned away, drawing a long, slow sigh.
That long, slow sigh had become a frequent and unconscious occurrence with him of late. When our ideals are sick unto death; when they are slowly dying and passing away from us, we sigh thus. John said to himself softly,—no matter what; but he felt the pang of knowing again what he had known so often of late, that his Lillie’s word was not golden. What she said would not bear close examination. Therefore, why examine?