It happened to be one of Horace’s late evenings, so that Mrs Cruden was alone. She was lying wearily on the uncomfortable sofa, with her eyes shaded from the light, dividing her time between knitting and musing, the latter occupation receiving a very decided preference.
“Pray don’t get up,” said Mrs Shuckleford, the moment she entered. “I only looked in to see ’ow you was. You’re looking bad, Mrs Cruden.”
“Thank you, I am quite well,” said Mrs Cruden, “only a little tired.”
“And down in your spirits, too; and well you may be, poor dear,” said the visitor soothingly.
“No, Mrs Shuckleford,” said Mrs Cruden brightly. “Indeed, I ought not to be in bad spirits to-day. We’ve had quite a little family triumph to-day. Horace has had an article published in the Rocket, and we are so proud.”
“Ah, yes; he’s the steady one,” said Mrs Shuckleford. “There’s no rolling stone about ’Orace.”
“No,” said the mother warmly.
“If they was only both alike,” said the visitor, approaching her subject delicately.
“Ah! but it often happens two brothers may be very different in temper and mind. It’s not always a misfortune.”
“Certainly not, Mrs Cruden; but when one’s good and the other’s wicked—”