One day as I was
strolling about, a little boy whom I had not seen before came down the
walk and crossed the grass. He seemed to be a year or two older than
myself, and caught my eye immediately by his remarkable beauty, and by
the depth of the mourning which he wore. His features were exquisitely
cut, and, in a child, one was not disposed to complain of their
effeminacy. His long fair hair was combed--in royal fashion--down his
back, a style at that time most unusual; his tightly-fitting jacket
and breeches were black, bordered with deep crape; not even a white
collar relieved his sombre attire, from which his fair face shone out
doubly fair by contrast.
"Polly! Polly!" I cried, running to find my companion and guide, "who
is that beautiful boy in black?"
"That's little Sir Lionel Damer," said Polly. "Good-morning, Leo!" and
she nodded as he passed.
The boy just touched his hat, bent his head with a melancholy and yet
half-comical dignity, and walked on.
"Who's he in mourning for?" I asked.
"His father and mother," said Polly. "They were drowned together, and
now he is Sir Lionel."
I looked after him with sudden and intense sympathy. His mother and
his father too! This indeed was sorrow deeper than mine.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64