"Very handsome still?"
"Handsome! Yes, handsome, certainly; but I thought more of her manner than her face. And then Fanny, Miss Fanny is so young!"
"Ah!" said my father, murmuring in Greek the celebrated lines of which Pope's translation is familiar to all.
"Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground."
"Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor, Lady Ellinor say that, or her—her husband?"
"Her husband certainly—Lady Ellinor rather implied than said it."
"We shall see," said my father. "Open the window, this room is stifling."
I opened the window, which looked on the Strand. The noise—the voices—-the tramping feet—the rolling wheels became loudly audible. My father leant out for some moments, and I stood by his side. He turned to me with a serene face. "Every ant on the hill," said he, "carries its load, and its home is but made by the burdens that it bears. How happy am I!—how I should bless God! How light my burden! how secure my home!"
My mother came in as he ceased. He went up to her, put his arm round her waist and kissed her. Such caresses with him had not lost their tender charm by custom: my mother's brow, before somewhat ruffled, grew smooth on the instant. Yet she lifted her eyes to his in soft surprise. "I was but thinking," said my father apologetically—"how much I owed you, and how much I love you!"