It
had sung there all the morning, and now it had come back again,
singing a second time to Richard, who thought of the soft nest up
in the old maple, and likened that robin and its mate to himself
and Edith, his own singing-bird.
But why linger so long over that May-day which Richard remembered
through many, many future years, growing faint and sick as often
as the spring brought back the apple-blossom perfume or the song
of mated robins. It is, alas, that we shrink as Victor did from
the task imposed, that, like him, we dread the blow which will
strike at the root of Richard's very life, and we approach
tearfully, pityingly, half remorsefully, as we stand sometimes by
a sunken grave, doubting whether our conduct to the dead were
always right and just. So Victor felt, as he drew near to Richard;
and sitting down beside him said,
"Can I talk with you awhile about Miss Hastings?" Richard started.
Victor had come to tell him she was sick, and he asked if it were
not so.
"Something has ailed her of late," he said.
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