The young fellow, I dare say, gave his parent no more credit for
his long self-denial, than many other children award to theirs. We take
such life-offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist avers
that, in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves, and the
other, qui se laisse aimer; it is only in later days, perhaps, when the
treasures of love are spent, and the kind hand cold which ministered
them, that we remember how tender it was; how soft to soothe; how eager
to shield; how ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear,
which would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope
those fruits of love, though tardy, are yet not all too late; and though
we bring our tribute of reverence and gratitude, it may be to a
gravestone, there is an acceptance even there for the stricken heart's
oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories, and pious tears. I am
thinking of the love of Clive Newcome's father for him (and, perhaps,
young reader, that of yours and mine for ourselves); how the old man lay
awake, and devised kindnesses, and gave his all for the love of his son;
and the young man took, and spent, and slept, and made merry.
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