Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head,
intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full of
mischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questions
and mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses after
each meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, torn
clothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed child
never was.
The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it was
not. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, more
prudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist.
Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout.
Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion.
Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in dead
earnest. Somewhat _too_ fast. There is a certain slowness about your
strong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and power
with your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperor
or a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man's
body is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland is
rather slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk.
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