“Father,” said Sylvia suddenly, “you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?”
“It depends absolutely,” replied Mr. Leeson, “on how we accustom ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries.”
“Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won’t you come and eat it?”
“Always harping on food,” said Mr. Leeson. “It is really sad.”
“You must come and eat while the things are hot,” answered Sylvia.
Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold—although he spoke of the heat—made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed a tiny chop.
“Ah,” he said, “how tempting it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child.”
He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia’s face turned white.
“No, thank you,” she said. “It really so happens that I don’t want it. Please eat it all. And see,” she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; “I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won’t you, father?”
“You must have used something to fry them in,” said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. “Well, well,” he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings—“all right; I will take a few.”