She
could do many more things than my poor mother could; she even once
wrote a letter to the bishop for my father. But he missed my
mother sorely; the whole parish noticed it. Not that he was less
active; I think he was more so, and more patient in helping every
one. I did all I could to set Deborah at liberty to be with him;
for I knew I was good for little, and that my best work in the
world was to do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But
my father was a changed man."
"Did Mr Peter ever come home?"
"Yes, once. He came home a lieutenant; he did not get to be
admiral. And he and my father were such friends! My father took
him into every house in the parish, he was so proud of him. He
never walked out without Peter's arm to lean upon. Deborah used to
smile (I don't think we ever laughed again after my mother's
death), and say she was quite put in a corner. Not but what my
father always wanted her when there was letter-writing or reading
to be done, or anything to be settled."
"And then?" said I, after a pause.
"Then Peter went to sea again; and, by-and-by, my father died,
blessing us both, and thanking Deborah for all she had been to him;
and, of course, our circumstances were changed; and, instead of
living at the rectory, and keeping three maids and a man, we had to
come to this small house, and be content with a servant-of-all-
work; but, as Deborah used to say, we have always lived genteelly,
even if circumstances have compelled us to simplicity.
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