summons us to the breakfast-room
At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone,
summons us to the breakfast-room. This room is on the ground floor,
and is one of the prettiest in the house. Four windows give us an
extended view of our Dame Chtelaine”s sloping meadows and wooded
hills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and the
house in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls–first a
portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue
eyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine it
to be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when
he was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, taken
early last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are to
the pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor
and mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad
intellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays about
the mouth, are the same in each.

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