"Bring it this minute, I say," said he, passionately, and in a voice that grew less and less articulate every moment.
"Then I'll go for it myself;" and with these words he grasped the arm of the chair and tried to rise.
"There, there," said she, softly forcing him back into his seat, "I 'll fetch it at once. I wish you would be persuaded, dear papa--" began she, still holding the glass in her hands. But he snatched it rudely from her, and placed it before him.
"That's what it is," said he, at last; "handsome Paul Kellett they used to call me at Corfu. I wonder what they'd say now?"
"It is a mere passing thing, a spasm of some kind."
"Ay," said he, with a mocking laugh, to which the distortion imparted a shocking expression. "Both sides will be the same--to-morrow or next day--I know that."
She could hear no more, but, covering her face with her hands, sobbed bitterly.
Kellett still continued to look at himself in the glass; and whether the contortion was produced by the malady or a passing emotion, a half-sardonic laugh was on his features as he said, "I was wrong when I said I'd never be chapfallen."
There come every now and then, in our strange climate, winter days which imitate the spring, with softened sunlight, glistening leaves, and warbling birds; even the streams unite in the delusion, and run clearly along with eddying circles, making soft music among the stones. These delicious intervals are full of pleasant influences, and the garden breath that floats into the open drawing-room brings hope as well as health on its wings. It was on such a morning a little funeral procession entered the gateway of the ruined church at Kellester, and wound its way towards an obscure corner where an open grave was seen. With the exception of one solitary individual, it was easy to perceive that they who followed the coffin were either the hired mourners, or some stray passers-by indulging a sad curiosity in listlessness. It was poor Kellett's corpse was borne along, with Conway walking after it.
The mournful task over, and the attendants gone, Conway lingered about among the graves, now reading the sad records of surviving affection, now stopping to listen to the high-soaring lark whose shrill notes vibrated in the thin air. "Poor Jack!" thought he, aloud; "he little knows the sad office I have had this morning. He always was talking of home and coming back again, and telling his dear father of all his campaigning adventures; and so much for anticipation--beneath that little mound of earth lies all that made the Home he dreamed of! He's almost the last of the Albueras," said he, as he stood over the grave; and at the same time a stranger drew near the spot, and, removing his hat, addressed him by name. "Ah! Mr. Dunn, I think?" said Conway.