Such worship as this has always been the attribute of the purest, most unselfish love.
He sat alone in his office one day, his head bowed idly over Blackstone, his thoughts far away, when the sharp grating of wheels on the street outside startled him into rising and glancing out of the window. She was springing from her little pony-phaeton, and in another moment came flitting down the steps and into the room like a ray of sunshine.
"Moping, are you?" she asked with her head on one side, and a glimmer of her old-time jaunty grace.
"Not exactly," he answered, cheerfully bowing over the gloved hand she extended with frank sweetness—"only thinking; our life is too short for moping."
She might have added:
"I myself must mix with action
Lest I wither by despair."
"Are you busy?" glancing, as he offered her a seat, at the table littered with books and papers.
"Not at all; I am at your service," he replied.
"I want to talk to you; but—excuse me—your office looks so gloomy—makes me blue," she shivered a little. "Is your mother quite well?"
"Quite well—thanks. Will you not go up and see her?—or shall I bring her down?"