CHAPTER XIV.
EMILY.
"Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible, soft melancholy.
"'Has she no faults then,' Envy says, 'Sir ?' 'Yes, she has one, I must aver; When all the world conspires to praise her The woman's deaf, and does not hear.'" John Mortimer was sitting at breakfast the very morning after this conversation had taken place at Melcombe.

No less than four of his children were waiting on him; Gladys was drying his limp newspaper at a bright fire, Barbara spreading butter on his toast, little Hugh kneeling on a chair, with his elbows on the table, was reading him a choice anecdote from a child's book of natural history, and Anastasia, while he poured out his coffee with one hand, had got hold of the other, which she was folding up industriously in her pinafore and frock, because she said it was cold.

It was a windy, chilly, and exasperatingly bright spring morning; the sunshine appeared to prick the traveller all over rather than to warm him.

Not at all the morning for an early walk, but John, lifting up his eyes, saw a lady in the garden, and in another instant Mrs.Frederic Walker was shown in.
"What, Emily!" exclaimed John, starting up.
"Yes, John; but my soldier and my valuable infant are both quite well.
Now, if you don't go on with your breakfast, I shall depart.

Let me sit by the fire and warm my feet." "You have breakfasted ?" "Of course.