I wish a milder word would do; I am no angel, and my corruption rises against it.
My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort.

When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed,--'Oh, I hate black! But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for form's sake; but I hope, Helen, you won't think it your bounden duty to compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb.

Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an old gentleman in -- shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to drink himself to death?
There, now, I declare you're crying! Well, it must be affectation.' He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two, to cheer poor Frederick's solitude.

It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I was unreasonable to wish it.

What was my father to me?
I had never seen him but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had never cared a stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better than a stranger.