the tears rolled down
his face as he prayed for a blessing for her and her baby. Lady Sarah
was in the room, and began to doubt whether she had read the man's
character aright. There was an ineffable tenderness about him, a
sweetness of manners, a low melody of voice, a gracious solemnity in
which piety seemed to be mingled with his love and happiness! That he
was an affectionate father had been always known; but now it had to be
confessed that he bore himself as though he had sprung from some noble
family or been the son and grandson of archbishops. How it would have
been with him on such an occasion had his daughter married some vicar
of Pugsty, as she had herself once suggested, Lady Sarah did not now
stop to enquire. It was reasonable to Lady Sarah that the coming of a
Popenjoy should be hailed with greater joy and receive a warmer welcome
than the birth of any ordinary baby. "You have had a good deal to bear,
Brotherton," he said, holding his noble son-in-law by the hand; "but I
think that this will compensate for it all." The tears were still in
his eyes, and they were true tears,--tears of most unaffected joy. He
had seen the happy day; and as he told himself in words which would
have been profane had they been absolutely uttered, he was now ready
to die in peace. Not that he meant to die, or thought that he should
die. That vision of young Popenjoy, bright as a star, beautiful as a
young Apollo, with all the golden glories of the aristocracy upon his
head, standing up in the House of Commons and speaking to the world at
large with modest but assured eloquence, while he himself occupied some
corner in the gallery, was still before his eyes.

After all, who shall say that the man was selfish? He was contented to
shine with a reflected honour. Though he was wealthy, he never desired
grand doings at the deanery. In his own habits he was simple. The
happiness of his life had been to see his daughter happy. His very soul
had smiled within him when she had smiled in his presence. But he had
been subject to one weakness, which had marred a manliness which would
otherwise have been great. He, who should have been proud of the
lowliness of his birth, and have known that the brightest feather in
his cap was the fact that having been humbly born he had made himself
what he was,--he had never ceased to be ashamed of the stable-yard. And
as he felt himself to be degraded by that from which he had sprung, so
did he think that