Antony has all these."
"Fair words! Fair words, Elizabeth! But we wont sell t' wheat till
we have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. He's gotten
more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't like
such ways!"
"If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own
interest. He knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure."
"Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is a
bad road until I'm safe off it."
"We may as well hope for the best. Antony appeared to understand what
he was doing."
"Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed
who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbut
talking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more
'an a bit lonely, I'm feared."
A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rector
was sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singing
at the piano. She looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finished
her hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious
father and sister:
"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."
"Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she
did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless
chambers with confidence and peace.
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