John Brent by Theodore Winthrop — Read

"Come, gentlemen," said the father, in a lively way. "We are all campaigners. Sit down and take a cup of tea with us. No ceremony. _A la guerre, comme à la guerre._ I cannot give you Sèvres porcelain. I am afraid even my delf is a little cracked; but we'll fancy it whole and painted with roses. Now plenty of tea, Ellen dear. Guests are too rare not to be welcomed with our very best. Besides, I expect Brother Sizzum, after his camp duties are over."

It was inexpressibly dreary, this feeble conviviality. In the old gentleman's heart it was plain that disappointment and despondency were the permanent tenants. His gayety seemed only a mockery, -- a vain essay to delude himself into the thought that he could be happy even for a moment. His voice, even while he jested, was hollow and sorrowful. There was a trepidation in his manner, half hope, half fear, as if he dreaded that some one would presently announce to him a desperate disaster, or fancied that some sudden piece of good luck was about to befall him, and he must be all attention lest it pass to another. Nothing of the anxiety of a guilty man about him, -- of one who hears pursuit in the hum of a cricket or the buzz of a bee; only the uneasiness of one flying forever from himself, and hoping that some chance bliss will hold his flight and give him a moment's forgetfulness.