"
"I have heard you call her little wife a hundred times," said Isabel,
"and it never seems to affront her."
"One may take liberties with one's relations," replied Eustace, "but I
tell you, young girls should never let men call them wife, especially
such an old, ugly, foolish, fat, vulgar, round-head, as Morgan; and I
had rather my uncle had no restitution, than owe any favour to him."
Anxious to draw her brother from a topic, on which he always was
ungovernable, Isabel begged him to describe the present state of their
mountain-residence. "Is our garden quite destroyed?" said she, "Are the
primroses I planted on the south bank in blow?"--"I observed something
more interesting," answered, he; "my mother's grave is kept quite neat
by the villagers, and the roses we set there are twined all over it.
Nay, Isabel, if you weep so, I cannot repeat to you the verses I made
yesterday, just as I caught sight of our old cottage." Isabel promised
to be composed, and Eustace proceeded--
The sun has roll'd round Skiddaw's breast
Of floating clouds a golden veil,
The heath-cock has forsook his nest,
And mounted on the morning gale;
While bursting on my raptured eyes,
Lakes, hills, and woods, distinctly rise.
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