Elizabeth faced her
grandfather across a round table. A bowl-shaped chandelier holding
twelve wax-lights hung from the groined ceiling above the rose-decked
_epergne_, making a bright oasis in the centre of a room gloomy rather
from the darkness of its fittings than from the insufficiency of
illumination. Under the soft lustre the plate, precious for its antique
beauty, the quaint cut glass, and old blue china enriched with gold were
displayed to perfection. Bessie had a taste, her eye was gratified,
there was repose in all this splendor. But still she felt that odd
sensation of acting in a comedy which would be over as soon as the
lights were out. Suddenly she recollected the bare board in the Rue St.
Jean, the coarse white platters, the hunches of sour bread, the lenten
soup, the flavorless _bouilli_, and sighed--sighed audibly, and when her
grandfather asked her why that mournful sound, she told him. Her courage
never forsook her long.
"It has done you no harm to sup your share of Spartan broth; hard living
is good for us young," was the squire's comment. "You never
complained--your dry little letters always confessed to excellent
health. When I was at school we fed roughly. The joints were cut into
lumps which had all their names, and we were in honor bound not to pick
and choose, but to strike with the fork and take what came up."
"Of course," said Bessie, pricked in her pride and conscience lest she
should seem to be weakly complaining now--"of course we had treats
sometimes.
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