His mother, evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and newly-acquired domestic habits.
The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively hot day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one, to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the medium of his smiling eyes: forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his delight,--when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass before us; and looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us.
'Excuse me, Mrs.Huntingdon,' said he, 'but I was spell-bound; I had neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to withdraw from the contemplation of such a scene.

How vigorous my little godson grows! and how merry he is this morning!' He approached the child, and stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely to produce tears and lamentations, instead of a reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back.
'What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs.
Huntingdon!' he observed, with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the infant.
'It is,' replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.
He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that witnessed his fear to offend.
'You have not heard from Huntingdon lately ?' he said.
'Not this week,' I replied.

Not these three weeks, I might have said.
'I had a letter from him this morning.

I wish it were such a one as I could show to his lady.' He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a letter with Arthur's still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back again, adding--'But he tells me he is about to return next week.' 'He tells me so every time he writes.' 'Indeed! well, it is like him.

But to me he always avowed it his intention to stay till the present month.' It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and systematic disregard of truth.
'It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,' observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.
'Then he is really coming next week ?' said I, after a pause.
'You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure.