I used to be able to cry when I was five
or six years old, but now it is a lost art.
"By the way, speaking of tears reminds me that your friend, Mr.
Dunlop, was here last evening, and, while shewing him some views of
foreign scenes, we suddenly came across that old, little painting of
yourself, in which the artist represented you as a stiff-jointed
child, with a row of curls the colour and shape of shavings neatly
glued to a little wooden head. You remember how we used to make fun of
it. I always said that picture was bad enough to bring tears, and
there was actually quite a perceptible moisture in his eyes as he
looked at it. Who would have supposed that he possessed so much
aesthetic sensibility?
"Well, I am only wearying you, so I will close. Don't be troubled
about me, dear. Sometimes I am violently interested in my own
unreasonable sufferings, and at other times I am wholly indifferent to
them; but nothing can befall my perverse nature that shall alter the
tenderness always existing for you in the heart of your loving
HELENE."
Rose read all but the concluding paragraphs aloud to her brother, who,
standing at the open door, was looking idly out upon the leaf and
blossom of a lovely garden.
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