She loves him,--she knows no other father. Nicholas,
more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the
while. Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head
enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too
bashful to approach Annette's position.
Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls
her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the
toying recognition of a father. He is deeply immersed in thought,
smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her
before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the
child. Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to
him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of
kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at
his hands. He looked upon them again, and again caressed them,
parted their hair with his fingers. And as Annette would open her
eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his
thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. He was in
trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a
sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek
told the tale of his reflections.
"Now, Daddy;" he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at
the door surprised at Marston's singular movements, "you are my
confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the
district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? You
know, Bob,--you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have
they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.
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