Then a shadow settled over the party. Elizabeth had a troubled look.
She was sure there had been some very unusual difference between Antony
and his father. They soon separated for the night, Elizabeth going
with Phyllis to her for room a final chat. There was a little fire
there, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room,
and deepened all its pretty rose tints. This was to the girls their
time of sweetest confidence. They might be together all the day, but
they grew closest of all at this good-night hour.
They spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all Elizabeth's
suppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. In fact,
the squire had received one of those blows which none but a living
hand can deal, for there are worse things between the cradle and the
grave than death--the blow, too, had fallen without the slightest
warning. It was not the thing that he had feared which had happened
to him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. He
had been walking up and down the terrace with Fanny, smoking his pipe,
and admiring the great beds of many-colored asters, when he saw Antony
coming toward him. He waited for his son's approach, and met him with
a smile. Antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortness
of the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his whole
heart.
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