"I don't know, papa," she
said at last, "unless we all take to the backwoods, live in a wigwam,
and feast on the fruits of the chase. Edward chafes a good deal under
the restraints of civilized life."
"Ah, here comes the prodigal son!" joyously exclaimed Eva, who ran to
meet her favourite brother, oblivious of the smiles produced by her
unflatteringly inapt remark.
"Don't kill any calf for me," entreated Edward, thrusting his younger
sister's straight yellow locks over her face, until it was hard to say
where her features ended and the back of her head began. "I deserve
it, but I don't like it. Veal is my detestation."
"Upon my word," said the old gentleman, looking very hard at a
discoloured spot just above the left eye of his eldest born, "it looks
as though I had been trying to kill the prodigal instead of the calf.
That's a bad bruise, my boy."
"'Tis, sir," responded Edward, in a tone which implied that meek
assent was all that could be expected from him to a proposition so
very self-evident. He felt uncomfortably conscious that the eyes of
the assembled family were upon him, and glanced half enviously at Eva,
as though the ability to shake a sunny mane over one's face at will
was something to be thankful for.
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