At the head of the table sat, less pale, and her face beaming with
deep, quiet, heartfelt joy, Lady Woodley herself; and near her were
Dr. Bathurst and his happy daughter, who in a few days more were to
resume their abode in his own parsonage. Opposite to her was a dark
soldierly sun-burnt man, on whose countenance toil, weather, and
privation had set their traces, but whose every tone and smile told
of the ecstasy of being once more at home.
Merry faces were at each side of the table; Walter, grown up into a
tall noble-looking youth of two-and-twenty, particularly courteous
and gracious in demeanour, and most affectionate to his mother;
Charles, a gentle sedate boy of fifteen, so much given to books and
gravity, that his sisters called him their little scholar; Rose, with
the same sweet thoughtful face, active step, and helpful hand, that
she had always possessed, but very pale, and more pensive and grave
than became a time of rejoicing, as if the cares and toils of her
youth had taken away her light heart, and had given her a soft
subdued melancholy that was always the same. She was cheerful when
others were cast down and overwhelmed; but when they were gay, she,
though not sorrowful, seemed almost grave, in spite of her sweet
smiles and ready sympathy. Yet Rose was very happy, no less happy
than Eleanor, with her fair, lovely, laughing face, or -
"But where is Lucy?" Edmund asked, as he saw her chair vacant.
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