The two elder boys--or rather young men, for they seemed fully
grown, though, like George, not yet bearded--treated him as already an
old acquaintance, while the youngest, a lad of fourteen, walked straight
up to him, put out his hand, and said, "How do you do, sir?" with a
pretty blush that went straight to my father's heart.
"These boys," he said to Yram aside, "who have nothing to blush for--see
how the blood mantles into their young cheeks, while I, who should blush
at being spoken to by them, cannot do so."
"Do not talk nonsense," said Yram, with mock severity.
But it was no nonsense to my poor father. He was awed at the goodness
and beauty with which he found himself surrounded. His thoughts were too
full of what had been, what was, and what was yet to be, to let him
devote himself to these young people as he would dearly have liked to do.
He could only look at them, wonder at them, fall in love with them, and
thank heaven that George had been brought up in such a household.
When luncheon was over, Yram said, "I will now send you to a room where
you can lie down and go to sleep for a few hours. You will be out late
to-night, and had better rest while you can. Do you remember the drink
you taught us to make of corn parched and ground? You used to say you
liked it. A cup shall be brought to your room at about five, for you
must try and sleep till then.
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