my time for sporting is past."

"You have no right to complain, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, with
a meaning glance and smile, which the old gentleman took in
excellent good part.

"Well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the
little demure figure at his side, "I don't say that I have. I
hope I thank God for his mercies, and am happy. But in this
world, Mr. Carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws
a care after it. Well — well — these things will all be
arranged for us!"

It was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some
subject of care, not vague nor undefined pressing upon Mr.
Ringgan's mind as he said this.

"Have you heard from my mother lately, Fleda?" said her
cousin.

"Why, yes," said Mr. Ringgan, — "she had a letter from her
only to-day. You ha'n't read it yet, have you, Fleda?"

"No, grandpa," said the little girl; "you know I've been
busy."

"Ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let Cynthia
bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till
you're as red as a turkey-cock?"