She gave a little sigh as she did
this, and the old man looked at her over the top of his paper. "Just
think, father," she said, "that Harry would have been thirty-eight this
very week!"
The old man made a comforting sort of little noise, half sympathetic and
half deprecatory. "Yes, I know," said the old lady, "but I can't help
thinking about him a great deal at this time of the year. I don't
understand why he was taken away from us. He was always such a good
boy--he would have been just like Charles, only handsomer--he was always
handsomer and brighter; he had so much of your spirit! Not but what
Charles has been the best of sons to us--I don't mean that--no one could
be better or more easy to please! But Harry had a different way with
him." Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away. "No," she
added, "I won't fret about him. I daresay he is happier where he is--I
am sure he is--and thinking of his mother too, my bonny boy, perhaps."
The old man got up, put his paper down, went across to the old lady, and
gave her a kiss on the brow. "There, there," he said soothingly, "we may
be sure it's all for the best;" and he stood looking down fondly at her.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108