These music-masters and
Italian teachers are such silly fellows. I know all about it, thought Mr.
Newt; and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very handsome,
singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting Petrarch's sonnets with
large, melancholy eyes. His manners refined and fascinating. His age?
About thirty. Poor Amy! Of course common humanity requires her to come
and see that he does not suffer. Of course he is desperately in love, and
she can only pity. Pity? pity? Who says something about the kinship of
pity? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to himself, that I ought to go
over and help that unfortunate young man. Perhaps he wishes to return to
his native country. I am sure he ought to. His native air will be balm
to him. Yes, I'll ask Miss Waring about it this very evening.
He did not. He never alluded to the subject. They had never mentioned
that summer noontide exchange of glance and gesture which had so curious
an effect on Lawrence Newt that he now stood quite as often at his back
window, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window,
looking out over the river and the ships, and counting the spires--at
least it seemed so--in Brooklyn.
For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureau
drawer--of the rose whose benediction lay forever fragrant upon those
united names?
"I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury," said the merchant to himself.
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