Emma

cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”

“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”

“Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have thought it—and
he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does
fly indeed!—and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding
good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of
pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it
was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I remember that perfectly.”

“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents
and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part
with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of
any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”

“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have