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The Battle of Life. Charles Dickens

The difference between them, in respect of age, could not exceed four years at most; but Grace, as often happens in such cases, when no mother watches over both (the Doctor′s wife was dead), seemed, in her gentle care of her young sister, and in the steadiness of her devotion to her, older than she was; and more removed, in course of nature, from all competition with her, or participation, otherwise than through her sympathy and true affection, in her wayward fancies, than their ages seemed to warrant. Great character of mother, that, even in this shadow and faint reflection of it, purifies the heart, and raises the exalted nature nearer to the angels!

The Doctor′s reflections, as he looked after them, and heard the purport of their discourse, were limited at first to certain merry meditations on the folly of all loves and likings, and the idle imposition practised on themselves by young people, who believed for a moment, that there could be anything serious in such bubbles, and were always undeceived - always!

But, the home-adorning, self-denying qualities of Grace, and her sweet temper, so gentle and retiring, yet including so much constancy and bravery of spirit, seemed all expressed to him in the contrast between her quiet household figure and that of his younger and more beautiful child; and he was sorry for her sake - sorry for them both - that life should be such a very ridiculous business as it was.

The Doctor never dreamed of inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make the scheme a serious one. But then he was a Philosopher.

A kind and generous man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common Philosopher′s stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist′s researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal property of turning gold to dross and every precious thing to poor account.

′Britain!′ cried the Doctor. ′Britain! Holloa!′

A small man, with an uncommonly sour and discontented face, emerged from the house, and returned to this call the unceremonious acknowledgment of ′Now then!′

′Where′s the breakfast table?′ said the Doctor.

′In the house,′ returned Britain.

′Are you going to spread it out here, as you were told last night?′ said the Doctor. ′Don′t you know that there are gentlemen coming? That there′s business to be done this morning, before the coach comes by? That this is a very particular occasion?′

′I couldn′t do anything, Dr. Jeddler, till the women had done getting in the apples, could I?′ said Britain, his voice rising with his reasoning, so that it was very loud at last.

′Well, have they done now?′ replied the Doctor, looking at his watch, and clapping his hands. ′Come! make haste! where′s Clemency?′

′Here am I, Mister,′ said a voice from one of the ladders, which a pair of clumsy feet descended briskly. ′It′s all done now. Clear away, gals. Everything shall be ready for you in half a minute, Mister.′

With that she began to bustle about most vigorously; presenting, as she did so, an appearance sufficiently peculiar to justify a word of introduction.

She was about thirty years old, and had a sufficiently plump and cheerful face, though it was twisted up into an odd expression of tightness that made it comical. But, the extraordinary homeliness of her gait and manner, would have superseded any face in the world.

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