The words were followed by a silence, broken only by the scratching of the quill with which Mr. Stone was writing.
Having finished, he again began to pace the room, and coming suddenly on his daughter, stopped short. Touching her shoulder timidly, he said: “I was talking to you, I think, my dear; where were we?”
Bianca rubbed her cheek against his hand.
“In the air, I think.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Stone, “I remember. You must not let me wander from the point again.”
“No, dear.”
“Lambs,” said Mr. Stone, “remind me at times of that young girl who comes to copy for me. I make her skip to promote her circulation before tea. I myself do this exercise.” Leaning against the wall, with his feet twelve inches from it, he rose slowly on his toes. “Do you know that exercise? It is excellent for the calves of the legs, and for the lumbar regions.” So saying, Mr. Stone left the wall, and began again to pace the room; the whitewash had also left the wall, and clung in a large square patch on his shaggy coat. “I have seen sheep in Spring,” he said, “actually imitate their lambs in rising from the ground with all four legs at once.” He stood still. A thought had evidently struck him.
“If Life is not all Spring, it is of no value whatsoever; better to die, and to begin again. Life is a tree putting on a new green gown; it is a young moon rising—no, that is not so, we do not see the young moon rising—it is a young moon setting, never younger than when we are about to die—”
Bianca cried out sharply: “Don't, Father! Don't talk like that; it's so untrue! Life is all autumn, it seems to me!”
Mr. Stone's eyes grew very blue.