this life's troubles will, after their shabby fashion. But, indeed, how can they help it? that, too, is the will of Nature.
And was not Dexter himself, in the new neighborhood as in the old? His customers were still of the same class. But his surroundings were of a superior character,—there was a better atmosphere prevailing in High Street, and more light in his house. He did not love darkness better.
Pretty and well-dressed women were to be seen in High Street, and they never, except by mistake or disaster, wandered through Salt Lane. Standing in his door, and observing them according to his thoughtful fashion, Dexter remembered that his daughter was growing rapidly into a tall, handsome girl, and foresaw that she could not always be a child. He saw young misses going past with their school-books in their hands, and if he followed them with his eyes as far as eyes could follow, it was not for any reason save such as should have made them love and trust the man. He was thinking so seriously about his daughter, up-stairs at work with her mother, embroidering scarfs and banners.
He had only Columbia. She learned fast, when she went with Silas Swift to the school in Salt Lane,—so they all said, and he knew she was fond of her book. He had no ambition to make a lady of Columbia,—oh, no! But he was looking forward, according to his nature, and—who could tell what future might wait on her? He based his expectations for his child on his own experience. Neither he nor Jessie had ever looked for such good fortune as they had; and a step farther, must it not be a step higher, and accordingly new prospects?
Prophecy is unceasing. In what does the prescience of love differ from inspiration?
One morning Dexter was sent for by the principal of the seminary of the town, to assist in the decoration of her school-room preparatory to the examination and exhibition of her pupils.
While at work there, aided by Silas Swift, who was now his assistant in business, and notable for his skill as a designer and painter and painter of transparencies, and whatsoever in that line was desired for public festivities, processions, illuminations, and general jubilation of any character,—while at work in the great school-room, Mr. Dexter was unusually silent.
This was no occasion for, there was no need of, much speaking or of merriment. It was not expected of him. He was not dealing with, while he worked for, others now, but he was dealt with constantly, to an extent that confounded and embarrassed him. He did not make the demonstrations people sometimes do in such a case, but was silent, and half sad. Everything that passed before him he saw, it made an impression rapid and deep on his mind. The pictures drawn and painted by the pupils, and hung around the walls for exhibition, the pupils themselves, passing in and out,—girls of all ages, ladies to look at, all of them,—suggested anew the question, Why should his daughter be shut off from the privileges of these? He felt ashamed when he asked. Yet the question would be answered; and without palliation, self-excusing, or retort, he meditated.
Finally he said to Silas Swift, who worked with him in silence broken only by question and answer that referred merely to their business,—
"Look!"—and his eyes followed a young girl who had been hunting for several minutes among the desks for a book.
The youth obeyed,—he looked, but seemed not to understand the flag-maker as quickly or as clearly as was expected of him.
"Columby," said Dexter, with a wink and a nod, that to his mind expressed everything.
"Oh, yes," said Silas, as if he understood.
His penetration was not put to further proof. The mere supposition of his apprehension satisfied his employer, who could now go on without embarrassment.
