the orchard, that bold hardy lad, the eldest born, who has scaled
(Heaven knows how) the tall, straight upper branch of that great
pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely and as fearlessly, in as
much real safety and apparent danger, as a sailor on the top-mast.
Now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing that brings down a
pelting shower of stony bergamots, which the father gathers rapidly
up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for her motherly fear--a
fear which only spurs the spirited boy to bolder ventures. Is not
that a pretty picture? And they are such a handsome family too, the
Brookers. I do not know that there is any gipsy blood, but there is
the true gipsy complexion, richly brown, with cheeks and lips so
red, black hair curling close to their heads in short crisp rings,
white shining teeth--and such eyes!--That sort of beauty entirely
eclipses your mere roses and lilies. Even Lizzy, the prettiest of
fair children, would look poor and watery by the side of Willy
Brooker, the sober little personage who is picking up the apples
with his small chubby hands, and filling the basket so orderly, next
to his father the most useful man in the field. 'Willy!' He hears
without seeing; for we are quite hidden by the high bank, and a
spreading hawthorn bush that overtops it, though between the lower
branches and the grass we have found a convenient peep-hole.
'Willy!' The voice sounds to him like some fairy dream, and the
black eyes are raised from the ground with sudden wonder, the long
silky eyelashes thrown back till they rest on the delicate brow, and
a deeper blush is burning on those dark cheeks, and a smile is
dimpling about those scarlet lips. But the voice is silent now, and
the little quiet boy, after a moment's pause, is gone coolly to work
again. He is indeed a most lovely child. I think some day or other
he must marry Lizzy; I shall propose the match to their respective
mammas. At present the parties are rather too young for a wedding--