In consequence of these reflections her musings
were not so sad as they might otherwise have been.
Her parents laughed to see how she revelled in the freedom of the
old-fashioned little spot, which, though on the river, was decidedly "out
of the swim." It was late in the season, and there were few guests at the
hotel. The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being used by a
pair of belated turtle-doves, --the wife a blushing dot of a woman, the
husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks like a devoted
weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive cough, a natty
little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the golden-haired
Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could not enjoy his
hard-earned rest without one and all. They were such a refined, happy,
sweet family, for all their pinched circumstances, that the Levices were
attracted to them at once. To be with Mrs. Tyrrell one whole day, Mrs.
Levice said was a liberal education, --so bright, so uncomplaining, so
ambitious for her children was she, and such a help and inspiration to her
hard-worked husband. Mr. Levice tramped about the woods with Tyrrell and
brier-wood pipes, and appreciated the moral bravery of a man who struggled
on with a happy face and small hope for any earthly rest.
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