In those days of which we speak, when undigested knowledge,
in a great invading horde, had swarmed all his defences, man, suffering
from a foul dyspepsia, with a nervous system in the latest stages of
exhaustion, and a reeling brain, survived by reason of his power to go
on making courage. Little heroic as (in the then general state of petty
competition) his deeds appeared to be, there never had yet been a time
when man in bulk was more courageous, for there never had yet been
a time when he had more need to be. Signs were not wanting that this
desperate state of things had caught the eyes of the community. A little
sect---'" Mr. Stone stopped; his eyes had again tumbled over the bottom
edge; he moved hurriedly towards the desk. Just as his hand removed a
stone and took up a third sheet, Cecilia cried out:
"Father!"
Mr. Stone stopped, and turned towards her. His daughter saw that he had
gone quite pink; her annoyance vanished.
"Father! About that girl---"
Mr. Stone seemed to reflect. "Yes, yes," he said.
"I don't think Bianca likes her coming here."
Mr. Stone passed his hand across his brow.
"Forgive me for reading to you, my dear," he said; "it's a great relief
to me at times."
Cecilia went close to him, and refrained with difficulty from taking up
the tasselled cord.
"Of course, dear," she said: "I quite understand that.
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