A pleasant day, a light air, a frosty sun. On the green the vicar, with his pretty boy by the hand, passed him, not a hundred yards off, like a ship at sea. There was a waving of hands, and smiles, and a shouted 'beautiful day.'
'What a position that poor fellow has got himself into!' good Mr. Larkin thought, with a shrug of compassion, to himself. 'That reversion! Why it's nothing—I really don't know why I think about it at all. If it were offered me this moment, positively I would not have it. Anything certain—any thing would be better.'
Little Fairy grew grave, in spite of the attorney's smiles, whenever he saw him. He was now saying—as holding his 'Wapsie's' hand, he capered round in front, looking up in his face—
'Why has Mr. Larkin no teeth when he laughs? Is he ever angry when he
laughs—is he, Wapsie—oh, Wapsie, is he? Would you let him whip me, if
I was naughty? I don't like him. Why does mamma say he is a good man,
Wapsie?'
'Because, little man, he is a good man,' said the vicar, recalled by the impiety of the question. 'The best friend that Wapsie ever met with in his life.'
'But you would not give me to him, Wapsie?'
'Give you, darling! no—to no one but to God, my little man; for richer, for poorer, you're my own—your Wapsie's little man.'
And he lifted him up, and carried him in his arms against his loving heart, and the water stood in his eyes, as he laughed fondly into that pretty face.
But 'little man' by this time was struggling to get down and give chase to a crow grubbing near them for dainties, with a muddy beak, and 'Wapsie's' eyes followed, smiling, the wild vagaries of his little Fairy.
In the mean time Mr. Larkin had got among the noble trees of Brandon, and was approaching the lordly front of the Hall. His mind was busy. He had not very much fact to go upon. His theories were built chiefly of vapour, and every changing light or breath, therefore, altered their colouring and outlines.