It was a sad prospect. The contemplation of it
brought tears to Ann's eyes.
He saw the justice of her complaint and promised to turn over a new
leaf. He honestly meant to do so; but, like many another repentant
sinner, found himself feeble before the difficulties of performance.
He might have succeeded better had it not been for her soft deep
eyes beneath her level brows.
"You're not much like your mother," so he explained to her one day,
"except about the eyes. Looking into your eyes I can almost see
your mother."
He was smoking a pipe beside the fire, and Ann, who ought to have
been in bed, had perched herself upon one of the arms of his chair
and was kicking a hole in the worn leather with her little heels.
"She was very beautiful, my mother, wasn't she?" suggested Ann.
Abner Herrick blew a cloud from his pipe and watched carefully the
curling smoke.
"In a way, yes," he answered. "Quite beautiful."
"What do you mean, 'In a way'?" demanded Ann with some asperity.
"It was a spiritual beauty, your mother's," Abner explained. "The
soul looking out of her eyes. I don't think it possible to imagine
a more beautiful disposition than your mother's. Whenever I think
of your mother," continued Abner after a pause, "Wordsworth's lines
always come into my mind.
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