Still, though
he bubbled and brimmed over with fun, he left the impression on me
that . . . . there is a pain and care, bred, it may be, out of the very
richness of his gifts and abundance of his outward prosperity. Rich, in
the prime of life, . . . . and children budding and blossoming around him
as fairly as his heart could wish, with sparkling talents,--so many, that
if he choose to neglect or fling away one, or two, or three, he would
still have enough left to shine with,--who should be happy if not
he? . . . .
Towards sunset we all walked out into the podere, pausing a little while
to look down into a well that stands on the verge of the lawn. Within
the spacious circle of its stone curb was an abundant growth of
maidenhair, forming a perfect wreath of thickly clustering leaves quite
round, and trailing its tendrils downward to the water which gleamed
beneath. It was a very pretty sight. Mr. Story bent over the well and
uttered deep, musical tones, which were reverberated from the hollow
depths with wonderful effect, as if a spirit dwelt within there, and
(unlike the spirits that speak through mediums) sent him back responses
even profounder and more melodious than the tones that awakened them.
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