My Master’s Story. 159

 

generally returned moody and restless, and with a
headache from the late hours and the unwonted
supper which was always given him. But for those
gloomy days, when we children were kept out of
the way as much as possible, that was a happy
portion of my life.”

“We children!” I looked at the grave, grey,
and somewhat gaunt figure between me and the
window, and tried to imagine Mr. Hurst a child,
wandering with that sister, a little older than him-
self, among the fields and lanes, hurrying with other
boys to school, playing leap-frog and hockey with
his school-fellows

 

No, that was a step too far ;
Mr. Hurst had never played hockey and leap-frog,
I felt sure. When I recovered the thread of his
story, which I had let go to indulge in these specu-
lations, he was speaking of his mother.

“She was a brave woman,” he said ; “ brave and
gentle and noble. What might she not have
been

 

Well, it is all past now ; I would rather
say, what may she not now be. She taught me to
love learning; she trained me in industry and
thoughtfulness and self-denial—trained me by ex-
ample far more than precept. My sister, lively,
pretty, and quick in repartee, was petted by my
father, and she was always the one whom he took
out with him in his cheerful days, and whom he