She retained
her personal freshness even now, in the prosy afternoon-time of
her life; but what her features were primarily indicative of was a
sound common sense behind them; as a whole, appearing to carry
with them a sort of argumentative commentary on the world in
general.
The details of the accident were then rehearsed by Stephen's
father, in the dramatic manner also common to Martin Cannister,
other individuals of the neighbourhood, and the rural world
generally. Mrs. Smith threw in her sentiments between the acts,
as Coryphaeus of the tragedy, to make the description complete.
The story at last came to an end, as the longest will, and Stephen
directed the conversation into another channel.
'Well, mother, they know everything about me now,' he said
quietly.
'Well done!' replied his father; 'now my mind's at peace.'
'I blame myself--I never shall forgive myself--for not telling
them before,' continued the young man.
Mrs. Smith at this point abstracted her mind from the former
subject. 'I don't see what you have to grieve about, Stephen,'
she said. 'People who accidentally get friends don't, as a first
stroke, tell the history of their families.'
'Ye've done no wrong, certainly,' said his father.
'No; but I should have spoken sooner. There's more in this visit
of mine than you think--a good deal more.'
'Not more than I think,' Mrs. Smith replied, looking
contemplatively at him.
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