"Yes, but not published," said the man.
The girl's next eager question was cut short by the entrance of the parlour-maid with the morning's letters; and after her came Theophilus Caldegard.
His person was as unlike the popular conception of a man of science as can well be imagined. His sturdy figure, thick white hair, and the ruddy complexion of his face, where the benevolence of the mouth attracted attention before the keenness of the eyes, suggested rather the country gentleman than the man of genius whose discoveries might move a world.
He kissed his daughter, and, "Tea quick—the kettle's boiling, Amy," he said. "Morning, Bellamy."
And, as Bellamy made no response, "First time I ever saw him absorbed by a letter," he remarked:
"Best one I've had for six months," said Bellamy, looking up. "That young brother of mine's coming down by the three-ten."
"Rolling down, you mean," said Caldegard.
"Can't roll any longer—covered with moss," retorted Bellamy. "Aunt Jenny died and didn't leave me a cent."
"Why didn't he come before?" asked Caldegard.
"Been looking for something to do," said the brother. "Now he's been a soldier, I don't believe there's anything left."