have overflowed in that direction, but it did. The grief of youth is an
abominable egotist, and that is the truth. I got up from my chair and
walked towards the window; it was open, and outside the window was Mrs.
Primmins's canary, in its cage. London air had agreed with it, and it
was singing lustily. Now, when the canary saw me standing opposite to
its cage, and regarding it seriously, and, I have no doubt, with a very
sombre aspect, the creature stopped short, and hung its head on one
side, looking at me obliquely and suspiciously. Finding that I did it
no harm, it began to hazard a few broken notes, timidly and
interrogatively, as it were, pausing between each; and at length, as I
made no reply, it evidently thought it had solved the doubt, and
ascertained that I was more to be pitied than feared,--for it stole
gradually into so soft and silvery a strain that, I verily believe, it
did it on purpose to comfort me!--me, its old friend, whom it had
unjustly suspected. Never did any music touch me so home as did that
long, plaintive cadence. And when the bird ceased, it perched itself
close to the bars of the cage, and looked at me steadily with its
bright, intelligent eyes. I felt mine water, and I turned back and
stood in the centre of the room, irresolute what to do, where to go. My
father had done with the proof, and was deep in his folios. Roland had
clasped his red account-book, restored it to his pocket, wiped his pen
carefully, and now watched me from under his great beetle-brows.
Suddenly he rose, and stamping on the hearth with his cork leg,
exclaimed, "Look up from those cursed books, brother Austin! What is
there in your son's face? Construe that, if you can!"




CHAPTER II.