It seemed a hard task, for three times he filled a sheet of paper and then burned it. It seemed as if he couldn’t get his thoughts together to suit him.
But at last he completed his letter, sealed and directed it, and made up his mind to hand it to Hattie just as she was leaving work at night.
And his heart was lighter after the work was done. He had allowed himself to rise above the cold conventionalities of a callous, heartless world—to say to himself, “If she will but have me, I will wed worth, modesty, purity, beauty, and virtue, no matter how humble the source from whence all these attributes spring. I will not allow false pride or the opinions of others to chill the ardor of true and manly affection. I will be true to nature and nature’s God, and respond to the warm and noblest impulses which He alone can plant in the human breast.”
And it seemed as if a brighter light beamed in his eye when he left his office and came out among his work-people. There was surely a kindlier tone in his voice.
CHAPTER XX.
GOOD ADVICE.
The library of Mr. Legare was a favorite resort for his sister-in-law, Mrs. Louisa Emory—or Aunt Louisa, as Frank and Lizzie delighted to call her. In his books, and also in the paintings, she found joys which none but an intellectual woman could find, and here, even in her most melancholy moods, she would brighten up.
Frank and Lizzie, who thought there was no one on earth like their aunt, were with her when Mr. Legare came into the library with the portfolio just received from Mr. W——.
“Come, sister, come, children, and look at my new treasures with me,” cried the old gentleman, taking a seat at his private writing and reading-table, and opening the portfolio.
“What are these?” asked Mrs. Emory, as he spread out the drawings all over the table.
“Sketches from the pencil of that wonderful girl in the book-bindery—the one I have already talked to you about. Look at this caricature—a fashionable belle and a poor street-sweeper. Is it not almost a speaking sketch? See the abject, almost hopeless look in the face of the poor girl. Who would believe a pencil, without color, could give so much expression?”