'I thought so myself,' replied Mildred; and the subject of their conversation appearing at this moment, the topic was dropped.
CHAPTER XIV
RICHARD CŒUR-DE LION
'What is life, father?'
'A battle, my child,
Where the strongest lance may fail;
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail;
Where the foes are gathered on every hand
And rest not day or night,
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight.'—Adelaide Anne Procter.
The next day the vicarage had not regained its wonted atmosphere of quiet cheerfulness, which had been its normal condition since Mildred's arrival.
In vain had 'the sweet Whistler' haunted the narrow lobby outside Olive's room, where, with long legs dangling from the window-seat, he had warbled through the whole of 'Bonnie Dundee' and 'Comin' thro' the Rye;' after which, helping himself ad libitum from the old-fashioned bookcase outside Mildred's chamber, he had read through the whole index of the Shepherd's Guide with a fine nasal imitation of Farmer Tallentire.
'Roy, how can you be so absurd?'
'Shut up, Contradiction; don't you see I am enlightening Aunt Milly's mind—clearing it of London fogs? Always imbibe the literature of your country. People living on the fellside will find this a useful handbook of reference, containing "a proper delineation of the usual horn and ear-marks of all the members' sheep, extending from Bowes and Wensley dale to Sedbergh in Yorkshire, from Ravenstone-dale and Brough to Gillumholme in Westmorland, from Crossfell and Kirkoswold——"'