This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family.
He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father's pipe
when it was empty, gathered up the mother's knitting needle, or
ball of worsted, when it fell to the ground, stroked the sleek coat
of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the
daughter from the bright copper kettle that sang before the fire.
All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import, but
when true love is translated into Low Dutch it is in this way that
it eloquently expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber
family. The winning youngster found marvelous favor in the eyes of
the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the most staid and
demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of approbation of his
visits; the teakettle seemed to sing out a cheering note of welcome
at his approach; and if the sly glances of the daughter might be
rightly read, as she sat bridling and dimpling, and sewing by her
mother's side, she was not a whit behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin,
or the teakettle, in good will.
Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on.
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