He was distant and
very respectful to Lady Bassett; I might say obsequious. Seemed almost
afraid of her at first.
That wore off in a few months; but he was never quite so much at his
ease with her as he had been before he left some years ago.
And so did time roll on.
Every morning and every night Lady Bassett used to look wistfully at
Sir Charles, and say--
"Are you happy, dear? Are you sure you are happy?"
And he used always to say, and with truth, that he was the happiest man
in England, thanks to her.
Then she used to relax the wild and wistful look with which she asked
the question, and give a sort of sigh, half content, half resignation.
In due course another fine boy came, and filled the royal office of
baby in his turn.
But my story does not follow him.
Reginald was over ten years old, and Compton nearly six. They were as
different in character as complexion--both remarkable boys.
Reginald, Sir Charles's favorite, was a wonderful boy for riding,
running, talking; and had a downright genius for melody; he whistled to
the admiration of the village, and latterly he practiced the fiddle in
woods and under hedges, being aided and abetted therein by a gypsy boy
whom he loved, and who, indeed, provided the instrument.
He rode with Sir Charles, and rather liked him; his brother he never
noticed, except to tease him.
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