It was a square, light, cheerful
room. Not the best room: that was on the other side the hall. On a
sofa, underneath the window, reclined Mr. Channing, his head and
shoulders partly raised by cushions. His illness had continued long,
and now, it was feared, had become chronic. A remarkably fine specimen
of manhood he must have been in his day, his countenance one of
thoughtful goodness, pleasant to look upon. Arthur, the second son, had
inherited its thoughtfulness, its expression of goodness; James, its
beauty; but there was a great likeness between all the four sons.
Arthur, only nineteen, was nearly as tall as his brother. He stood
bending over the arm of his father's sofa. Tom, looking very blank and
cross, sat at the table, his elbows leaning on it. Mrs. Channing's
pale, sweet face was bent towards her daughter's, Constance, a graceful
girl of one and twenty; and Annabel, a troublesome young lady of nearly
fourteen, was surreptitiously giving twitches to Tom's hair.
Arthur moved from the place next his father when Hamish entered, as if
yielding him the right to stand there. A more united family it would be
impossible to find. The brothers and sisters loved each other dearly,
and Hamish they almost reverenced--excepting Annabel. Plenty of love
the child possessed; but of reverence, little. With his gay good
humour, and his indulgent, merry-hearted spirit, Hamish Channing was
one to earn love as his right, somewhat thoughtless though he was.
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