He was very proud of little
Dick, but Nina was his pet, as she was every body's who knew her,
and she ere long learned to love him better, if possible, than she
did her father, calling him frequently "her oldest papa," and
wondering in her childish way why he kissed so tenderly as often
as she lisped out that dear name.
And now but little more remains to tell. It is four months since
Richard came home, and the hazy Indian summer sun shines o'er the
New England hills, bathing Collingwood in its soft, warm rays, and
falling upon the tall bare trees and the withered grass below,
carpeted with leaves of many a bright hue. On the velvety sward,
which last summer showed so rich a green, the children are racing
up and down, Dick's cheeks glowing like the scarlet foliage he
treads beneath his feet, and Nina's fair hair tossing in the
autumn wind, which seems to blow less rudely on the little girl
than on her stronger older brother. On one of the iron seats
scattered over the lawn sits Richard; watching them as they play,
not moodily, not mournfully, for grief and sorrow have no lodgment
in the once blind Richard's heart, and he verily believes that he
is as happy without Edith as he could possibly have been with her.
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