the luscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun—­” His eyes swim with tropical languor as he speaks.  He still mechanically balances the spoon upon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie.  As his wife glances at him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen.  But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his face, he says, “Oh—­ah!—­I—­yes—­let it be Irving’s Columbus!”

Toward his wife Mr. Bennet’s manner is almost painfully thoughtful.  His eye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanical smile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind of indescribable, touching appeal for forgiveness.  It is conveyed in no particular thing that he says or does, but it pervades his whole intercourse with her.  As Gabriel and Ellen grow up toward maturity, Mrs. Bennet observes that the same peculiarity is stealing into his manner toward them.  It is as if he were involuntarily asking pardon for some great wrong that he has unconsciously done them.  And yet his mildness, and sweetness, and simplicity of nature are such, that this singular manner does not disturb the universal cheerfulness.

“You look a little tired to-night, father,” says Gabriel, when they are all seated in the front room again, by the table, with the lamp lighted.

“Yes,” replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his wife by his side—­“yes; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very angry to-day about some error he thought he had discovered, and he was quite short with us book-keepers, and spoke rather sharply.”

A slight flush passes over Mr. Bennet’s face, as if he recalled something extremely disagreeable.  His eyes become dreamy again; but after a moment the old smile returns, and, as if begging pardon, in a half bewildered way, he resumes: 

“However, his position is trying.  Fortunately there wasn’t any mistake except of his own.”

He is silent again.  After a little while he asks, “Couldn’t we have some music?  Ellen, can’t you sing something?”

Ellen thinks she can, if Gabriel will sing second; Gabriel says he will try, with pleasure; but really—­he is so overwhelmed—­the state of his voice—­he feigns a little cough—­if the crowded and fashionable audience will excuse—­he really—­in fact, he will—­but he is sure—­

During this little banter Nellie cries, “Pooh, pooh!” mamma looks pleased, and papa smiles gently.  Then the fresh young voices of the brother and sister mingle in “Bonnie Doon.”

The room is not very light, for there is but one lamp upon the table by which the singers sit.  The parents sit together upon the sofa; and as the song proceeds the hand of the mother steals into that of the father, which holds it closely, while his arm creeps noiselessly around her waist.  Their hearts float far away upon that music.  His eyes droop as when he was speaking of the tropic islands—­as if he were hearing the soft language of those shores.  As his wife looks at him she sees on his face, beneath the weariness of its expression, the light which shone there in the days when they sang “Bonnie Doon” together.  He draws her closer to him, and his head bows as if by long habit of humility.  Her eyes gradually fill with tears; and when the song is over her head is lying on his breast.