As he is an
old acquaintance (we won't say friend), we will disregard ceremony, and
walk boldly into the library where that gentleman is sitting.
He is changed--yes, sadly changed. Time has been hard at work with him,
and, dissatisfied with what his unaided agency could produce, has called in
conscience to his aid, and their united efforts have left their marks upon
him. He looks old--aye, very old. The bald spot on his head has extended
its limits until there is only a fringe of thin white hair above the ears.
There are deep wrinkles upon his forehead; and the eyes, half obscured by
the bushy grey eyebrows, are bloodshot and sunken; the jaws hollow and
spectral, and his lower lip drooping and flaccid. He lifts his hand to pour
out another glass of liquor from the decanter at his side, when his
daughter lays her hand upon it, and looks appealingly in his face.
She has grown to be a tall, elegant woman, slightly thin, and with a
careworn and fatigued expression of countenance. There is, however, the
same sweetness in her clear blue eyes, and as she moves her head, her fair
flaxen curls float about her face as dreamily and deliciously as ever they
did of yore. She is still in black, wearing mourning for her mother, who
not many months before had been laid in a quiet nook on the estate at
Savanah.
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