IamspeakingofthetimeswhenIbeheldherastheblamelesscompanionoftheyears,themotherofmychildren,thewomanIwasusedtoandshould——byallcanonsIhadknown——haveloved
Andtherewerethechildren.DaysandweekspassedwhenIscarcelysawthem,andthensomelittleincidentwouldhappentogivemeanunexpectedwrenchandplungemeintounhappiness.OneeveningIcamehomefromalongtalkwithNancythathadleftusbothwroughtup,andIhadenteredthelibrarybeforeIheardvoices.Maudewasseatedunderthelampattheendofthebigroomreadingfrom\"DonQuixote\";MatthewandBiddywereatherfeet,andMoreton,lessattentive,atalittledistancewastakingapartamechanicaltoy.Iwouldhavetiptoedout,butBiddycaughtsightofme.
\"It\'sfather!\"shecried,gettingupandflyingtome.
\"Oh,father,docomeandlisten!Thestory\'ssoexciting,isn\'tit,Matthew?\"
Ilookeddownintotheboy\'seyesshiningwithanexpressionthatsuddenlypiercedmyheartwithapoignantmemoryofmyself.MatthewwasfarawayamongthemountainsandcastlesofSpain.