"You look worn out, father," she said. "Come and lie down, and I
will read to you."
"I will, my dear," he answered. "I don't feel quite myself to-
night. The seasons tell upon me now. I suppose the stuff of my
tabernacle is wearing thin."
Mary cast an anxious look at him, for, though never a strong man,
he seldom complained. But she said nothing, and, hoping a good
cup of tea would restore him, led the way through the dark shop
to the door communicating with the house. Often as she had passed
through it thus, the picture of it as she saw it that night was
the only one almost that returned to her afterward: a few vague
streaks of light, from the cracks of the shutters, fed the rich,
warm gloom of the place; one of them fell upon a piece of orange-
colored cotton stuff, which blazed in the dark.
Arrived at their little sitting-room at the top of the stair, she
hastened to shake up the pillows and make the sofa comfortable
for him. He lay down, and she covered him with a rug; then ran to
her room for a book, and read to him while Beenie was getting the
tea. She chose a poem with which Mr. Wardour had made her
acquainted almost the last tune she was at Thornwick--that was
several weeks ago now, for plainly Letty was not so glad to see
her as she used to be--it was Milton's little ode "On Time,"
written for inscription on a clock--one of the grandest of small
poems.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143