good, the comfort perfect; old Morphew, the butler, a little older (but
very little older, perhaps on the whole less old, since in my childhood
I had thought him a kind of Methuselah); and Mrs. Weir, less active,
covering up her arms in sleeves, but folding and caressing them just as
always. I remember looking in from the lawn through the windows upon
that deadly-orderly drawing-room, with a humorous recollection of my
childish admiration and wonder, and feeling that it must be kept so
forever and ever, and that to go into it would break some sort of
amusing mock mystery, some pleasantly ridiculous spell.

But it was only at rare intervals that I went home. In the long vacation,
as in my school holidays, my father often went abroad with me, so that we
had gone over a great deal of the Continent together very pleasantly. He
was old in proportion to the age of his son, being a man of sixty when I
was twenty, but that did not disturb the pleasure of the relations
between us. I don't know that they were ever very confidential. On my
side there was but little to communicate, for I did not get into scrapes
nor fall in love, the two predicaments which demand sympathy and
confidences. And as for my father himself, I was never aware what there
could be to communicate on his side. I knew his life exactly,--what he
did almost at every hour of the day; under what circumstances of the
temperature he would ride and when walk; how often and with what guests
he would indulge in the occasional break of a dinner-party, a serious
pleasure,--perhaps, indeed, less a pleasure than a duty. All this I knew
as well as he did, and also his views on public matters, his political
opinions, which naturally were different from mine. What ground, then,
remained for confidence? I did not know any. We were both of us of a
reserved nature, not apt to enter into our religious feelings, for
instance. There are many people who think reticence on such subjects a
sign of the most reverential way of contemplating them. Of this I am far