g and selfish, as all lovers
are--young lovers in the flush of their happiness; I think it was cruel
of Edwin and Louise to walk up and down there in the elder brother's
very eyes.

For a moment he struggled against his passion.

"Uncle Phineas, just look here. How charming! Ha, ha! Did you ever
see such a couple of fools?"

Fools, maybe, but happy; happy to the very core--thoroughly engrossed
in their happiness. The elder brother was almost maddened by it.

"He must mind what he does--tell him so, Uncle Phineas--it would be
safer. He MUST mind, or I will not answer for myself. I was fond of
Edwin--I was indeed--but now it seems sometimes as if I HATED him."

"Guy!"

"Oh, if it had been a stranger, and not he! If it had been any one in
the world except my brother!"

And in that bitter cry the lad's heart melted again; it was such a
tender heart--his mother's heart.

After a time he recovered himself, and came down with me to breakfast,
as he had insisted upon doing; met them all, even Miss Silver--and
Edwin, who had placed himself by her side with an air of right. These
lovers, however deeply grieved they looked--and, to do justice, it was
really so--needed not to be grieved over by any of us.

Nor, looking at the father and mother, would we have dared to grieve
over THEM. In the silent watches of the night, heart to heart, husband
and wife had taken council together; together had carried their sorrow
to the only Lightener of burthens. It seemed that theirs was
lightened; that even in this strange entanglement of fate they were
able to wait patiently--trusting unto the Almighty Mercy not only
themselves but the children He had given them.

When, breakfast being over, John according to his custom read the
chapter and the prayer--no one rose up or went out; no one refused,
even in this anguish of strife, jealousy, and disunion--to repeat after
him the "Our Father" of their childhood.

I believe every one of us remembered for years, with an awe that was
not altogether pain, this morning's chapter and prayer.

When it was ended, worldly troubles closed round us again.

Nothing seemed natural. We hung about in twos and threes, uncertain
what to do. Guy walked up and down, alone. His mother asked him if,
seeing his foot was so well, he would like to go down to the mills as
usual; but he declined. Miss Silver made some suggestion about
"lessons," which Edwin jealously negatived immediately, and pr