“Has Coney told you who he is? William Ludlow’s son. You remember him?”
“Remember William Ludlow! I must forget myself before I could forget him,” was the doctor’s answer, as he took both my hands in his and held me before him to look into my eyes. The tears were rising in his own.
“A pleasant face to look at,” he was pleased to say. “But they did not name him William?”
“No. We call him Johnny.”
“One generation passes away and another rises up in its place. How few, how few of those I knew are now left to welcome me! Even poor Jacob has not stayed.”
Tears seemed to be the fashion just then. I turned away, when released, and saw them in Miss Lewis’s eyes as she stood against the window-sill, absently playing with the white jessamine.
“When they begin to speak of those who are gone, it always puts me in mind of mamma,” she said in a whisper, as if she would apologize for the tears. “I can’t help it.”
“Is it long since you lost her?”
“Nearly two years; and home has not been the same to papa since. I do my best; but I am not my mother. I think it was that which made papa resolve to come to England when he found he could afford it. Home is but triste, you see, when the dearest one it contained has gone out of it.”