bbed Norman, "I never could before--that made me," after
a long silence, "and then I know how foolish I was, and how she would
say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like it, about my
place, and that it was not for the sake of my duty, but of ambition. I
knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not tell whether I
could make up my mind, so I would say nothing."

CHAPTER XIII.

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide,
When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sing.
F. TENNYSON.

It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman
was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of
his own assertion, that he was worse without it; for when this sole
occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would
willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was
too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with
interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task
would have been easier, but the low intermittent fever that hung about
him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless and
forlorn, through the weary day, not always able to go out with his
father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church.

All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still
more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his
father's kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a
parent who could not fail to be loved and honoured; but, as a busy man,
trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children
either as a merry playfellow, or as a stern paternal authority, not
often in the intermediate light of guiding friend, or gentle guardian;
and it affected Norman exceedingly to find himself, a tall schoolboy,
watched and soothed with motherly tenderness and affection; with
complete comprehension of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His
father's solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this,
in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that
Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible
feelings of grateful affection.

How could his father know exactly what he would like--say the very
things he was thinking--see that his depression was not wilful
repining--find exactly what best soothed h