She knew our
history in a certain sort of way, but she spoke of one of us to the
other as "your brother," or "your sister," and the late Mr. Sam
always figured as "your poor papa." We tried at first to correct
her, but never got her farther than "your poor uncle," and at last we
all acquiesced except Eustace, who tried explanations with greater
perseverance than effect. Her excuse always was that Harold was so
exactly like her poor dear little Henry, except for his beard, that
she could almost think she was speaking to him! She was somewhat
deaf, and did not like to avow it, which accounted for some of her
blunders. One thing she could never understand, namely, why Harold
and Eustace had never met her "poor little Henry" in Australia, which
she always seemed to think about as big as the Isle of Wight. He had
been last heard of at Melbourne; and we might tell her a hundred
times that she might as well wonder we had not met a man at
Edinburgh; she always recurred to "I do so wish you had seen my poor
dear little Henry!" till Harold arrived at a promise to seek out the
said Henry, who, by all appearances, was an unmitigated scamp,
whenever he should return to Australia.
On the whole, her presence was very good for us, if only by infusing
the element of age. She liked to potter about in the morning,
attending to her birds and bantams, and talking to the gardening men,
weeding women, and all the people in the adjacent hamlet; and,
afterwards, the fireside, with her knitting and a newspaper, sufficed
her.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225