'I'll give you
Lovely Peg right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'
Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a
young lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are
two children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their
company.
The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with
him, helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him as if he
were the object of his life. If he be thoughtful, the white-haired
gentleman is thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting
by his side, and looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes
the tiny hand in his, and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the
child says:
'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'
'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'
'Oh yes, I am very strong.'
'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'
And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired
gentleman likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they
go about together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and
follows them.
But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The
child herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He
hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her face.
He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a
slight, when there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her
sleep. It pleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning.
He is fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is no creature
by. The child says then, sometimes:
'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'
He only answers, 'Little Florence! little Florence!' and smooths
away the curls that shade her earnest eyes.
The voices in the waves speak low to him of Florence, day and night
- plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside
them in the evening, or sit at an open window, listening to their
roar. They speak to him of Florence and his altered heart; of Florence
and their ceaseless murmuring to her of the love, eternal and
illimitable, extending still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the
invisible country far away.
Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too late, to come between
us and the unseen region on the other shore! Better, far better, that
they whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift
river hurried us away!
The End.
