The Last and the First

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“What an unbecoming light this is!” said Eliza Heriot, looking from the globe above the table to the faces round it.

“Are we expected to agree?” said her son, as the light fell on her own face. “Or is it a moment for silence?”

“The effect is worse with every day. I hardly dare look at any of you.”

“You have found the courage,” said her daughter, “and it is fair that you should show it. You appointed the breakfast hour yourself.”

Lady Heriot did not suggest that anyone else should appoint it.

“Well, good morning to you all,” she said, her plural phrase suggesting she did not greet rare creatures. “So you are all in time to-day.”

“As we are on most days,” said her son. “You imply a thing that is not.”

“Good-morning, Mater,” said the younger of her step-daughters, her quiet tone challenging any cause for criticism. “Yes, we are all in time, and happy in the firelight until the daylight intervenes.”

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