ness and business of importance made it impossible for me to leave Yorkshire. How does he do? I hope you look cheerfully before him, and do all that you can to comfort him.
Rob. Indeed I should have been very glad, in my homely way, to have done what I could to comfort him; but, I don't know how it is, he gets on main well without, Sir.
Bea. (surprised.) Does he?—I'm very glad to hear it. I love him for that, now: it is a noble exertion in him; he has great merit in it, truly.
Rob. Humph, humph.(a pause.)
Bea. What were you going to say, my good Robert?
Rob. Nothing, Sir; I was only clearing my throat.
Bea. How does he sleep, Robert?
Rob. I can't say, Sir, not being present when he's a-bed, you know.
Bea. How does he eat, then? little rest and little food must, I fear, have brought him very low.
Rob. Nay, as for the matter of his eating, I can't say but I find as good a notch made in the leg of mutton, when he dines alone, as there used to be.
Bea. Well, that's good. But I fear he is too much alone.
Rob. No, Sir; he has dined out a pretty deal of late. He does, indeed, walk up and down the shady walk by the orchard, and talk to himself often enough.
