In the spring I was not a little scared to read amongst the deaths in the newspaper:—"At Naples, of scarlet fever, on the 25th ult., Cecilia, wife of Frederick Lovel Esq., and daughter of the late Sir Popham Baker, Bart." I knew what my friend's grief would be. He had hurried abroad at the news of her illness; he did not reach Naples in time to receive the last words of his poor Cecilia.
Some months after the catastrophe, I had a note from Shrublands. Lovel wrote quite in the old affectionate tone. He begged his dear old friend to go to him, and console him in his solitude. Would I come to dinner that evening?
Of course I went off to him straightway. I found him in deep sables in the drawing-room with his children, and I confess I was not astonished to see my Lady Baker once more in that room.
"You seem surprised to see me here, Mr. Batchelor!" says her ladyship, with that grace and good breeding which she generally exhibited; for if she accepted benefits, she took care to insult those from whom she received them.
"Indeed, no," said I, looking at Lovel, who piteously hung down his head. He had his little Cecy at his knee: he was sitting under the portrait of the defunct musician, whose harp, now muffled in leather, stood dimly in the corner of the room.
"I am here not at my own wish, but from a feeling of duty towards that—departed—angel!" says Lady Baker, pointing to the picture.
"I am sure when mamma was here, you were always quarrelling," says little Popham, with a scowl.
"This is the way those innocent children have been taught to regard me," cries grandmamma.
"Silence Pop!" says papa, "and don't be a rude boy."
"Isn't Pop a rude boy?" echoes Cecy.
"Silence, Pop," continues papa, "or you must go up to Miss Prior."
