Instead of asking him, however, Mr. Curtis favored the handsome poet with a ferocious scowl, and then, flinging away his Havana, stalked out of the room with tragic strides that would have made his fortune on the stage.
Mr. Wildair laughed, and Mr. Randall looked after him with a slight smile, but said nothing.
One week later Georgia learned his opinion. Emily had been spending the evening at the hall, and had just gone home.
"What a dear little angel she is!" exclaimed Georgia; "so sweet, so good, so gentle and loving. Her presence brightens the room the moment she enters, like a ray of sunshine. Darling little Emily! how I love her! I wish she were my sister."
Warren smiled, and placing a hand lightly on either shoulder, looked down in her flushed, enthusiastic face.
"Belle Georgia," he said, meaningly, "so do I."
And now let the curtain rise once more ere it falls again forever.
Five years have elapsed, but Burnfield and Richmond House are still the same; a little larger, a little more noisy, a little more populous, but nothing to speak of. The march of improvement does not get ahead very fast there.
There is a little brown cottage standing by the sea-shore, and sitting in the "best room" is an elderly lady knitting away as if the fate of kingdoms depended on it. Such a spotless best room as it is; not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, the very covers of the "Pilgrim's Progress" and "Robinson Crusoe" fairly glitter with cleanliness, and it's absolutely dangerous for a person of weak eyes to look at the chairs and painted floor, so perfectly dazzling are they. The old lady herself, albeit a little stiff and prim in her dress, is as bright as a new penny, and although the said dress would at the present day be called somewhat skimpy, it is a calico, like Joseph's coat of many colors, and she is fairly gorgeous in it.