“Now, my dear William,” said Lady Mary.
But William stood without moving, without even raising his eyes to his grandfather.
A tear stole down Eva’s cheek.
“It is my fault,” she said, “I have not educated him rightly.” And she took William on her lap, while her tears fell fast upon his face; he felt them not, however, but fell asleep on the oppressed bosom of his mother.
“Try,” said Lord Kysington, “to make William less shy.”
“I will endeavor,” she replied, in that child-like tone of submission I had so often heard. “I will try, and perhaps I may succeed, if Lady Mary will tell me what she has done to make her son so happy and gay.” And the wo-begone mother looked at Harry, who was playing by Lord Kysington’s chair, and her glance returned to her own poor sleeping babe.
“He suffered even before his birth,” she murmured. “We have both been very unfortunate; but I will endeavor to weep no more that William may become as other children.”
Two days elapsed, two painful days, full of concealed grief, full of a heavy anxiety. Lord Kysington’s brow was care-worn, and his eyes would seek mine, as though to question; but I turned away to avoid answering.
The morning of the third day Lady Mary entered the room with playthings of various kinds, which she had brought for the two children. Harry laid hold of a sabre, and ran up and down the room, uttering shouts of joy. William stood still; he held in his little hands the toys that were given him, but made no effort to use them, nor even looked at them.
“Stay, my lord,” said Lady Mary to her brother, “take this picture-book and give it to your grandson, perhaps his attention will be attracted by the pictures in it.” And she led William to Lord Kysington. The child made no resistance, but walked up to him, then stood still as a statue.