"
"Alas, that I should be so misjudged. But wait until your friend Bovyer
shows you my tears."
Mrs. Flaxman generally looked a trifle worried when Mr. Winthrop and I
got into conversation. This night, when I wanted every one to be happy,
I held my troublesome tongue in check, and made no further reply to my
guardian's badinage.
When I went to my room for the night, I drew back my curtain and looked
out into the darkness of a cloudy, moonless night. It chilled me, I
wondered if the baby and its father, with the cold, still form of the
once happy mother, had got into the light and warmth of home. I compared
our bright evening together in the drawing-room, where Mr. Winthrop had
sat with us reading, or rather translating as he read, some splendid
passages from his favorite classical authors, a treat not often granted,
but he was, I fancied, too tired to read or study in his library alone. I
too had tried to add my share to the evening's entertainment; singing
mostly some German home songs to an accompaniment on the piano. He had
not criticised my performance, a fact very encouraging to me.
But now, as I stood looking out into the black night, I thought of their
journey over the rough roads, already beginning to freeze, the baby cold
and hungry, and so tired. I turned hurriedly from the window and knelt to
say my prayers, a new element entering into my petitions. Forgetting the
stereotyped phrases, I remembered with peculiar vividness the impetuous
prayer uttered by Mr.
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