His face wore a weary, moody frown, and he stared
at the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. The others looked
at one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; the
woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, but
made no motion.
"Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
And the master so kind and so true;
And the little nook by the clear running brook,
Where we gathered the flowers as they grew?"
The dark-browed man listened, and thought. Her name was Alice, this
woman by his side. They had been schoolmates together, had gathered
flowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. They had grown up
to be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him,--his
wife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for a
week. What began it all? He hardly knew; but she had been provoking,
and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, and
then this silence, which he swore he would not break. How sad she
looked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over the
child.
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"
Was she singing about them, this child? She had sung at their wedding,
a little thing of seven years old; and old De Arthenay had played, and
wished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had
played for that year.
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