The Storyteller.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 243, 15 July 1876, Page 4

The Storyteller.

SUNRISE : AN EASTER SKETCH. Chapter IV.—The Eligible Suitor. A very fashionable man is Captain Eustace Fitz-Warrener— elegant and distinguished in bearing—polished and imposing in address. His exterior'is faultless—faultless, too, the whiskers and moustache, so admirably nurtured, so inimitably arranged. His tailor was an artist—some keen-eyed unkindly critic inieht have termed him a creator. certainly Captain Eustace Fitz-Warrener was not less mortal than other men in owing much to his tailor. There is no wretched pun even hinted at here, Captain Eustace FitzWarrener always paid his debts. He has just dismounted from his horse, and that is being held bv a servant as he is entering the sumptuous villa of G. Hampson, Esq. This morning, faultless as usual in appearance, one can detect a certain lurking nervousness not common m the captain. He has entered the hall, and is led by the servant at once to the master of the house, who is awaiting him in the library. He had come for his final answer. Captain Eustace Fitz-Warrener is an eligible, and Augusta Hampson's accepted suitor, subject onlv to " Papa." The conference is short between the gentlemen, and has resolved itself into a reference to solicitors on both sides, in whose hands now rest the future of the lovers—and Captain Eustace proceeds to the morning room of Mrs Hampson to be formally recognised by that lady as her daughter's future husband. A very fashionable couple they will no doubt be—very fashionable circles will be adorned by the Hon. Mrs. Warrener in future. Who knows but that she may become the leader of those circles, and that hats, bonnets, and robes may benamed after her ; that_ French milliners may call her blessed, and society bow the knee before her. • Mrs Hampson has received her son-in-law with the far-off gaze and impassive grace peculiar to her. Her husband had introduced him with the empressement a fixed belief m the virtues of the Honorable Eustace had pro- " A* town establishment, and a fine estate in Monmouthshire. Exactly the thing for Augusta, you know, my dear. Just what she 11 enjoy—a handsome fortune and unexceptionable Position. I think we may congratulate ourselves on her account at least," was the confidential remark Mr. Hampson made to his WI " 6 Do you think she loves him ? " questioned the mother, in reply. "Why, my dear, of course she does, or else why does she accept him ? " "True and yet —I could sometimes fancy she does not love him, as I think agirl should love the man she is going to marry." «Oh that will come afterwards —you know, many men think so much fuss about love in a wife a bore ; and then Gussy is not sentimental, but sensible, which, to say the least, is more useful." , _, ~ . Mrs. Hampson was silenced. The courtship proceeded, society was charmed, and the lawyers were busily at work upon the settlements—dressmakers, and the several trades following in their wake, were busy too, when one morning Mr. Hampson's solicitor called on Mr Fraser was an honest lawyer—that is, he would uphold a client's cause, advise him well, and generally carry the day for him. He was an acute man ; but had a hobby—mounted on this he eschewed red tape, snapped his fingers at the law, so termed, though his habitual caution kept him within its bounds—and rode it with a spirit and will that sometimes threatened to be dangerous. What that hobby was may be gathered from his conversation with Mr. Hampson. m " Sir," he is sayiug, " I am seldom deceived in men.' There are, you may depend on it, as infallible indications of character in the human physiognomy as there are infallible signs of certain diseases, and I will maintain that the diagnosis of character is as plain to the skilled physiognomist as is the diagnosis of disease to the skilled physician ; and, my dear sir, I am bound to say that my first impression (and I think much of first impressions)—my first impression of the Honorable Eustace FitzWarrener was, that he was not open. Not that I esteem reticence a fault; but his was the reticence of a man who knows he has something that, for his own reputation's sake, he must hide ; in short, I set him down for ahumbug but not of the common class—and I resolved to look close and sharp into every detail I could trace as belonging to him." " But really, Mr. Fraser, it seems to me your language respecting the gentleman in question is somewhat free," observed Mr. Hampson. Before he was my daughter's accepied suitor, I was well assured of his position. I know beyond a doubt that he is of good family, has a fine estate, that he is an upright and moral man." " And," interrupted the lawyer, " may I ask how you were certified of the two last-named " Sir," indignantly returned Mr. Hampson, "I have the best reason to know that he is always entirely free of debt, and always keeps a heavy balance at his banker's. What batter assurance could I have ?' "Just so," replied Mr. Fraser; "I, too, have discovered those facts, and just one other perhaps not quite so satisfactory. This is a copy of a certificate taken from the register in the little church of Caerleon, in Monmouthshire," — and he handed Mr. Hampson the document —" there is no mistake about it. _ I have hunted out all the details, and could write a romance from them. As I said, so I repeat, my first impression of Miss Hampson's suitor had not deceived me. It was the beginning of a clue that has led to this"—and he pointed to the paper in Mr. Hampson's hand, at which that gentleman was still staring in blank dismay,

" And now, sir," summed up the lawyer, « what is to be done ? Of course you will not take any step that would drag Miss Hampson s name before the public. At the same time, the rascal ought to be so thoroughly blackballed as to be expelled from the ranks he moves in." " t- " You have found out that he has _ been married, but how do you know his wife is living?" said Mr. Hampson, clinging to his own infallibility, and hoping to catch his lawyer tripping. ,".,,., u n " My dear sir, do you think I should call the man a humbug and a rascal, if my assertion was open to the least- doubt ?" rejoined the lawyer. "Besides, I tell you I have hunted out the details, and am prepared, if need be, to produce the veritable and hying Mrs. Warrener. I again ask you what is to be done ?" " The match must be broken off, said Mr. Hampson, slowly. " Exactly—will you see the honorable gentleman, or shall I ? " " I will have nothing more to do with him ; you do what you know is best, but let it be done quietly." . The lawyer withdrew, and within a few days a report was circulated that a special mission had necessitated the appearance of the Honorable Eustace Fitz-Warrener in Germany, and so one star less shone in the horizon of society. "Various rumors were circulated respecting the breaking off of the marriage. Society at large marvelled. Augusta's dear friends were mystified—she herself seemed changed—more gentle, somewhat humbled. Her father told her the facts, and they deeply mortified her vanity. She was a thoughtless, fashionable girl, and had accepted the offer that gratified her pride, since it made her the object of envy to her set. It did not bespeak a noble spirit,—yet Augusta was not altogether despicable, the best chords of her nature had not yet been touched. A skilled artist will bring out good music from an indifferent instrument, as certainly as a blunderer will stumble over the finest, evoking nought save discord, but as yet the skilled artist had not appeared. It spoke well for her womanly heart that she sought privately from Mr. Fraser his "details," and° took great interest in the forsaken wife, helping her to rejoin her parents. This wife was an honest, ignorant girl, whose main fault had been vanity, for which she and her friends had paid dearly. Mrs. Hampson, though she never knew the reason of the Honorable Eustace's dismissal, rejoiced over it in her quiet way, but it settled down in Mr. Hampson's mind, and rankled there. Still, he had to submit to silence, lest his daughter's name should be compromised. Chapter V.—Mr. Hampson Questions His Infallibility. The receipt of the black-edged letter had followed almost immediately upon the discovery respecting the Honorable Eustace, and the two events had tended to shake Mr. Hampson's belief in his own infallibility. Here were mistakes, —very palpable ones, too, —that he, Pope as he was to himself, had committed. And down in his mind there lurked the shadow of a conviction that it was just possible his management of Eouis had been not quite judicious, or what he had taught his son to expect. And now Eouis was dead, his wife prostrated by nervous fever, and Augusta not married. The strong hand travelled up and down the irongrey beard, and the keen eyes glanced hither and thither with nervous quickness ; the foot was not planted so firmly as before ; and there was the slightest possible stoop in the figure, once so upright. Mr. Hampson looked shaken. He had not yet realised the facts passing around him, nor comprehended their bearing on himself. His life had been so successful, his management and judgment so deferred to, and he had been so complete an autocrat in his sphere, that failnre was something he did not understand, —a fabulous existence altogether ignored by him ;■ and that he, George Hampson, should be capable of blundering seemed impossible. Yet the possibility was now presented to him by his daughter. " Papa !" she said, " Mr. Stelhng (the doctor) will consult with a physician to-morrow about poor dear mamma." " What !" suddenly exclaimed her father, rising, "is she worse? I thought she was better ; Bhe did not complain of anything." " Papa, I do not know why, but since I've been visiting that poor young woman whom we sent off to Wales yesterday, I can t help thinking that we very often make great mistakes about people." " Well, yes, of course young people often do make mistakes, but she must have been a very silly girl to suppose that rascal would ever acknowledge her as his wife in the circles in which he moved." " I didn't mean that, papa. I meant that we may live many years with people, and yet not really know them. ( Do you think you quite understand mamma ? " It was a bold stroke of Augusta s to say so much, and she kept her eye fixed on her father to see how far she might go. " Well, of course, you can't be sure of these things." Augusta went on — _ " Do you think you quite understood Mr. Warrener? I mean, his character?" No answer, unless a knitted brow and a fierce tug at his beard served as one. His daughter continued—" I did not ; and, papa dear, I am so glad it is all over ; indeed I am sure, after all, I was only pleased with just what caught his wife's regard. Papa, I have been just as silly as that girl." " Augusta, I wish you would not make such absurd comparisons." " Don't be angry with me, papa. I do not wish to vex you in what I am going to say ; but I've been sitting with mamma. I think her heart is breaking. Poor Louis ! Go up to her, papa dear, and talk to her about him ; speak lovingly of him, and say how it cuts you to the heart to think your last words to him i were unkind and forgiving. Mamma does not

speak of him to you, because you speak harshly of him, but the silence she is keeping is killing her, indeed it is. Mr. Stelling says so ; that is, he says that the thing that keeps her back must be something preying on her spirits, for her constitution is very sound." Mr. Hampson had been standing, but he now seated himself absently ; resting his elbow and supporting his head on his hand, he passed it abstractedly over his forehead. His daughter had made suggestions that had never before crossed his mind. Had he indeed lived in his own home a stranger among strangers ? Had he really driven out his only son, to die ? Was the wife of his bosom forbidden to exchange her thoughts with him ? And his daughter, she whom he so loved, had he nearly sacrificed her peace for ever ? And was she to slight him, to doubt his wisdom, to canvas his opinions ? Again and again was the beard pulled through the fingers, and the troubled brow smoothed by the passing hand. The veil of his inner life was rent in twain, but he paused from long habit ere he could gain courage to gaze beyond it. A life's habit may not be shaken off in a moment. " Augusta," he said slowly, and his voice was somewhat broken, "do you believe I have no love for your mother or yourself ? Do you believe T do not feel your brother's death ? Have you lost your trust in me, because I may have been wrong, for once, in my judgment ? " " Papa, dear papa ! how can you think so ? and she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him fondly. " I could hardly bear to say all I have said—l never meant to reproach you. Oh, papa ! surely you do not think so. But everything seems to be going wrong ; and I seem to myself such a foolish, useless, selfish thing, and I know how mamma frets within herself, I thought I'd come to you, and try — try to talk to you about it." " Right, Gussy, my darling ; and I will try,

too." The effort was made when he uttered those words, for they implied doubt in himself, —an acknowledgment, slight, but not worthless. He took his daughter's advice, and, instead of the five minutes spent at his wife's bedside, and given so grudgingly, he passed the greater part of his day there, and with her wept out the tears that were as waters of reconciliation between them. The loved name was no longer banished —the great gulf was passed—husband and wife were one. The remedy for her sick heart was applied. Though sorrow was still there, its poison was extracted, and Mrs. Hampson's recovery progressed well. Another sick chamber has now to be visited. There, a stillness that can be felt is over all. The painter is restored to health, but is still weak. A comfortable-looking woman is superintending the domestics—Mrs. Mason is in office. The easel has resumed its old place ; its master's hand is busy there. His foot, too, is employed, for it gently stirs a cradle, where his eldest son, not yet two weeks' old, is sleeping, The doctor enters the room—he who had stood there some little time since. He shakes hands with the young man and makes some inquiries. Then turning to Mrs. Mason, "Doing well?" " I think so, sir ; but she's awful low." " I expected that ; the strain on her nerves has been terrible. But perfect quiet and good nursing are all she wants. The constitution she brought from the Welsh hills is everything just now," he added with a smile, as he took his leave. The young man leant over his wife's pillow. Her deep, black eyes have lost their flashing brilliance, but there is a softer, finer radiance resting in them than lived there before, and the hard lines of the mouth have almost vanished. The delicate hand rests in that of her husband. He is now the nurse and comforter. Chapter VI.—A Visitor at the Studio. Two years have passed since Eouis learnt to rock his boy to sleep, while at intervals he was busy with the brush. He is still living in the dull street off Soho Square, but his surroundings speak of easier circumstances. He has retained his old garret, but it is now only his studio ; and rooms lower down serve for his living-place. His wife has regained the piquancy of her beauty, but it is softened, and shines out with a better lustre as she plays with her chubby, merry, restless baby eon, while she strives to induce his fat little balls of feet to step straight and firmly. Things have gone well with the painter and his wife, but they retain their humble home, and will do so a little longer, from regard to their kindhearted landlady, to whose good offices _ the boy owes much of his health, though a visit to Wales has, in his parents' opinion, had much to do with that. There Louis and his wife had passed their summer, and there had been painted the picture which, just accepted, now awaited its hanging on the walls of the Royal Academy. The little family are in their sittingroom, and the wife is saying, " I shall give a, grand party, papa, to-morrow ; it is baby's birthday." " A capital idea, Mabel. I have no doubt he will receive his guests with very proper grace." " I mean to have your study cleaned and cleared out, and let the children play there—for I can't allow you to paint to-morrow, you know ; and I'll pack everything away, and set it all in order again for you the next day." Louis, after some demur, agreed, and was romping with his boy, tossing and tumbling him to his noisy delight, when Mrs. Mason announced a visitor in the studio. The artist went up, and found a middle-aged gentleman seated in his room. " I am happy to see you, though I have not the privilege of your acquaintance," observed Louis. " No ; my name is Mortimer, and I have just returned from Germany, where I have been residing for some time. My father was solicitor to the late Mr. Morgan's father, and on my return from the Continent, visiting Monmouthshire, I learned all respecting the death of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, and their

daughter's marriage. I also learnt through your late visit where to find you." Louis bowed.

" Old Mr. Morgan was a friend to whom my father was strongly attached, and I naturally feel much interest in what may prove of interest to his grand-daughter, and also to yourself. In short, my purpose in coming here was to inform you of the death, in Germany, of the Honorable Eustace Fitz-Warrener, to whom your wife's inheritance fell, in consequence of her inability to produce a certain document. He leaves no direct heir, and the estate will now pass to a distant branch of the family who care nothing for it, and the fine old place will go to rack and ruin." "A great pity, indeed," returned Louis, " for it is a lovely place. But I suppose nothing can save it ?" " Yes ; the lost deed would." "Excuse me," laughed Louis; "you mean the ' found' deed." " Yes, yes," assented his visitor ; " and I am persuaded that deed is not really lost. I feel convinced that it is to be, and will be, found." " Have you any idea where ? " " Yes. I must have been a small boy when it occurred ; but I remember that old cabinet quite clearly," pointing to Mabel's heir-loom. "It seems like a dream, but I remember an old man putting a paper away there, and I remember he boxed my ears, and told me I was a naughty boy, when I tried to open the door to find it. But I should like to look again,—l feel so confident the old man was old Mr. Morgan, and the paper was the deed we want." Mr. Mortimer had spoken so earnestly, and expressed his confidence with such simple sincerity, that Louis ceased to regard him as a stranger. "By all means, my dear sir, search the cabinet. But I can assure you every possible and impossible corner has been ransacked to no purpose ; and my wife has worried herself almost to death with searching that cabinet. But here's the key." Mr. Mortimer opened the door, then the inner doors ; every drawer was taken out, and heretic fingers handled mementoes that ages past had been held sacred. Every scrutiny was made. The back and sides were tapped, and pinched, and pressed for secret hidingplaces, but in vain. " Nevertheless," said Mr. Mortimer, " I am certain Mr. Morgan hid the deed in this cabinet." " Here is the old business over again," observed Louis, good-humoredly. "My wife pulls all these things out, but I have always to replace them.;" and he went on putting in the drawers, and setting them all to rights. They relocked the cabinet and went down stairs together. " You must come and see my wife and boy," said Louis, as he took his guest into the sitting-room. They pressed him to stay to dinner, and made the meal merry with their pleasant converse, the young Louis enlivening the dessert with his baby frolics. The visitor rose to leave. " You must come to my children's party to-morrow," said Mabel, "it is baby's birthday." " I will ; and I have a presentiment that this young gentleman," shaking baby's hand, " will one day come to his own again." "We will hope so," returned Mabel; and they parted from their visitor. To-morrow has come, and it is four o'clock p.m., the hour fixed for the guests to arrive. The small people were punctual. Merry-faced, happy little folks they were. The studio had been converted into a play-room, the chief feature being a handsome rocking-horse, which Louis had considered a capital toy for his twoyear old son. Louis and his wife worked hard at nine-pins, ball, and house-building till tea was served. That meal over, they returned te their pastimes, accompanied by Mr. Mortimer, who had now arrived.

All went on merrily for some time, and no mischief had been done, till the eldest boy there, a reckless little fellow of about seven years, mounted the horse for a ride. H« dragged it near the oid cabinet. " This shall be the winning-post. I will ride close up to it and win the race," he said. A daring equestrian he proved. As high as he could force it/he rocked his prancing steed. Another inch hearer and the reliquary must be touched. He has gained the inch. A crash and a heavy fall—the cabinet is thrown over. Fortunately the door is locked—the contents are not displaced. More fortunate still, the lost deed is found ! _>«'. It fell out from between the cabinet and the base on which it was mounted, and which, finished round with a carved moulding, concealed all appearance of deception. The cabinet having been thrown off this base, a spring boart was disclosed on the apparent bottom of the closet, beneath which the parchment had been deposited. Mr. Mortimer seized it, rapidly satisfying himself that it was the long lost deed—his satisfaction helping to quiet the fears of the urchin, whose mischief had ended so well. Mr. Mortimer, accompanied by Louis, went next morning to set the machinery in action that would reinstate Mabel in her home, and give to himself the repose and quiet he so loved. Chapter Vll.—Once More at Home. May is at hand, and the private view at the Academy is visited by eager and anxious faces. Among them is Louis Hampson, and satisfaction lights his face when he finds his picture " on the line." Critic and dilettante both are there ; but one opinion only prevails—Louis Hampson's landscape is to be "the picture" of the exhibition. He hastens home to his wife with the good news, and they, enjoying a pleasant evening meal, discuss their future and glance back at their past. _ . _ When the events that happened in Wales rendered him a poor man, he, supported in his determination by his wife, resolved to hide himself in London from all his family and connections until he had achieved a name and position which they could respect. He had gained this coveted good, and he now thought of seeking his father. - ; „•

" But you would not provoke it, Louis, love." " I think not ; but who can say what he will or will not do. When I was a youngster at Harrow I'd have knocked a fellow down who should have dared to predict that I could act towards my father as I have done, and to keep it up so." " But look at the injustice," remarked Mabel; " Mr. Hampson never—even when he indulged you in mere whims—gave up one iota of his own will to you. He placed before you the example of his own character, and the first time ybii ventured to imitate him in self assertion, he disowned you—shut his door like his heart against you—his only son. Louis," she continued, " when I thought you dead, all the evil that is in me rose against him ; I could have taken his life-blood, drop by drop, for yours, nb revenge seemed to me too cruel. I saw you murdered before my eyes ; you, so good—so loving—so young, too, and for what ? I felt I had hot disgraced you —that I never should disgrace him. My own pride stood beside me, and looking through that, any little wrong you might have done to him vanished out of my sight ; no circumstances could extenuate his crime—no suffering on his part atone for it." Her face was glowing ; the old light shone anew from her eyes ; there was no mistaking the Welsh girl's spirit. Her husband drew her towards him and folded her to his heart. " Mab, my darling, rest here," he said ; " all this is past now ; we have gone through the night, our brighter sun is rising ; let it rise, too, in our hearts ; let it drive out and melt away the gloom and the mist that have been there. What right have we to be our own Providence, to arrogate God's rule instead of serving it. Mab, we have all been selfish, and therefore have all been wrong ; we will try a better way. But why do you sob so, my pet ? To-day is a white one for us ; it shall also be a hallowed one to me. I will at once write to my father." " Oh, Louis, how can I tell you ? what can I plead in my excuse ! But I must do what for these two years I have shrunk from doing. You wrote a letter once that you would now recall. I wrote one too. Yours might have been wrong, but mine was cruel, purposely cruel ; you must hate me when you know it." " Hate you ! you —my dear, good little wife —impossible ! Come tell me all about it, secrets are not for us, you know." And she told him word for word the contents of her black-edged missive ; told him, too, that she had never contradicted its message, and that therefore his parents must believe him dead. She sobbed out her confession on his bosom, glad of the relief, yet fearing its effects on her husband. Louis soothed her. " You were wrong, love ; but I set you a bad example. Forget it, my own, and come and help me ; we will write together. They must love my Mabel when they know her." So they sat together and wrote, but by some strange oversight those letters never reached their destination, and the young couple, waiting in vain for the answers, misconstrued the silence. The exhibition is open to the public, and the rooms are thronged. Mabel is among the visitors, and she makes her way to where a crowd of gazers point out a special atti'action. The picture thus drawing attention bore the simple a title "Easter." It was a study of sunrise; As a giant had the king of day awakened from slumber, and his rising was in glory. As this glory stretched in long lines of strength and beauty, the heavy lowering clouds had receded and lay piled in heaps, as though impotent ever again to spread their gloom across that brightened horizon. Before its potent brilliance creatures that love darkness slunk away, scared by the hated beam that disclosed their cruelty or loathsomeness. All that was lovely in nature seemed called to rejoicing ; flowers bloomed, the night dews, reposing on the grass, were transformed into myriads of light-reflecting gems ; the uprisen lark rested on its quivering wing to do homage to that newly risen sun. Only one figure was seen. It occupied no prominent place. It was that of a woman, the face and garb eastern ; she leant beside an empty tomb, but her gaze rested on the glorious sunrise. Closely true to Nature, exquisitely treated as was every detail, they but subserved the ©ne idea of the artist—the picture was instinct with that life which genius alone can give. It was a created vision, not a painted scene. A parable in a language all could read, and better still, could feel. Mabel placed herself so that she could see the faces of those who looked on the picture. She loved to see her husband's power thus manifested—to see the eye lightened and the countenance irradiated by the reflection of his genius. . Two persons now neared the picture who fixed the whole attention of the artist's wife. They were an old gentleman and lady, and as Mabel gazed on the latter, she was certain, from the strong likeness to her husband, that she must be his mother. They stood opposite the painting, the lady wrapt in its contemplation. " Who is the artist ?" she asked of her husband. He turned to his catalogue ; his face blanched and his hand trembled as he pointed to the name —"Louis Hampson." . The lady leant heavily on her husband's arm, and he led her half-fainting to the hall for air. Mabel followed them swiftly ; her scent bottle was proffered, as well as the snpport of her arm. Having reached the hall, the porter, seeing the lady's condition, conducted them into a side room, and the lady was left in Mabel's charge while her husband fetched her a restorative. " The heat was too much —do you feel better?" asked Mabel. "It was not the heat," replied her companion, absorbed too much to heed conventionality. "The picture ?" suggested Mabel. "It was my son's," rejoined the lady, still thinking aloud, " and he is dead."

" Have you not received our letters ?" broke involuntarily from Mabel. Mrs. Hampson looked at her wonderingly. " What letters ? From whom ? " she said, with awakening consciousness to things around her. "The letters we wrote you. lam Mabel Hampson, and Louis is not dead." " Louis, my son !—living ?—and you ? " " Mother," said Mabel, tenderly, " forgive me ; let me help you now," and she gave her the wine Mr. Hampson had procured, and now brought in. By a great effort Mrs. Hampson struggled successfully against the faintness that was oppressing her. Assisted by her husband and Mabel, she entered the insisting on her new-found daughter joiningher, and they drove to the dingy street off Soho Square. On the way Mabel had made her peace with the old man, and his son was pardoned. The carriage has reached the painter's lodging; Mr. and Mrs. Hampson have embraced their son and grandson. The past is blotted out ; there is to be no more estrangement. The Royal Academy is closed—the pictures are scattered. The agent employed by Louis has sold his picture well. The artist. and his family are ready to leave London for their fair home among the Welsh hills, where Mr. Mortimer has been arranging all for their reception. The last evening in London is to be spent "at home"—not in the dingy lodging but in the elegant villa. All is radiant there. It might seem to a fanciful eye that some less palpable light than a softly brilliant artificial skimmer had settled there. The spirit of light itself was surely there amongst the gay and costly toys —was scenting the beautiful flowers, and gracing the human beings meeting in that reception room. Mrs. Hampson sits next to Louis and his wife ; his hand rests in that of his mother, while his baby son is fondled on her knee. There is no far-off gaze in the loving eyes now ; very beautiful is the passionless face in its ineffable peace and contentment. " Mr. Hampson has grown into an old man, but you can love him better then when his form was less bowed and his step firmer. And Augusta—.some of her dash and sparkle has gone, and it has improved her. Her affianced husband is near her ; he is not so fashionably faultless as her late suitor, but her mother does not doubt her affection for him, nor can any who catch the glance with which she greets her lover. " That will be my legacy to Augusta," Mr. Hampson is saying, pointing to his son's picture ; "it is to be a heirloom in the family." Louis started. He had no idea who had purchased his picture, nor had he as yet observed it on the wall. He rose in deep emotion, and grasped his father's hand. " You are once again at home, my dear boy," said the. old man. " Let us thank God that it is so." " Amen," returned Louis, earnestly. That evening party was a happy one, and one to be remembered ; old sorrows were gone, for old sins were repented of. The sun had risen.