They are lounging on easy-chairs before a warm fire; the eldest is
reading, and the youngest, although dressed in the pretty uniform
of a naval cadet, is working at embroidery with colored wools.
Alvira and Aloysia, at the command of their father, have still preserved
their disguise, at first irksome to their habits and delicacy of
maidenhood; but necessity and fear toned down their objection, and
they gradually accustomed themselves to the change. In girlish
simplicity they were pleased with the novelty of their position. They
knew each other as Charles and Henry, and by these names we must now
call them.
The old clock of the church on the hill sent the mournful tones of the
eleventh hour over the silent city. Charles counted the solemn booms
of the church bell, and then, as if resuming the conversation with
Henry: "Eleven o'clock, and father not come home yet! I am sure I
don't know what keeps father out every night so late; if poor mother
were alive, she would never stand this."
"But perhaps pa may have important business and can't come home," we
hear the amiable Henry suggesting.
"Business! Nothing of the kind. He has got in amongst some old fools
who pretend to have more knowledge than their grandfathers, and are
deceiving old women of both sexes to such a degree that they actually
fancy they are inspired to make new Bibles, new commandments, and new
churches."
"But father might be trying to put them right," replied Henry softly,
"and perhaps feels as you do.
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