world? Haven’t I done what I could, Sidney, to be helpful to them as fell into misfortune? And now in my old age I’m only a burden, and the children as come after me are nothing but a misery to all as have to do with them. If it wasn’t for Clara I feel I couldn’t live my time out. She’s the one that pays me back for the love I’ve given her. All the others,—I can’t feel as they’re children of mine at all.”
It was a strange and touching thing that he seemed now-a-days utterly to have forgotten Clara’s past. Invariably he spoke of her as if she had at all times been his stay and comfort. The name of his son who was dead never passed his lips, but of Clara he could not speak too long or too tenderly.
“I can’t think what to do,” Sidney said. “If I talk to her in a fault-finding way, she’ll only dislike me the more; she feels I’ve no business to interfere.”
“You’re too soft with them. You spoil them. Why, there’s one of them broken a pane in the kitchen to-day, and they know you’ll take it quiet, like you do everything else.”
Sidney wrinkled his brow. These petty expenses, ever repeated, were just what made
