It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall at last a log, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May.
BEN JONSON.
"What has become of the Landholms?" said Mr. Haye's young wife, one evening in the end of December.
"Confound the Landholms!" — was Mr. Haye's answering ejaculation, as he kicked his bootjack out of the way of his just-slippered foot.
"Why Mr. Haye!" said Rose, bridling over her netting-work.
"What have the Landholms done?"
"Done!"
"Well, what have they?"
"One of them won't pay me his dues, and the other is fighting me for trying to get them," said Mr. Haye, looking at the evening paper with infinite disgust.
"What dues?"
"And what fighting, Mr. Haye?" said Elizabeth and Rose in a breath.
"I can't answer you if you both speak at once."