the young lady in question was somewhere within, the
Captain rushed into the house, pursued by all the family in a body, save
William Peabody, who remained with old Sylvester, seated and in silence.

"How go matters in the city, William?" he said, removing his hand from
his brow, where it had rested in contemplation for several minutes.

"After the old fashion, father," William Peabody answered, smiling with
a fox-like glance at his father; "added three new houses to my property
since last year."

"Three new houses?"

"Three, all of brick,--good streets--built in the latest style. The city
grows and I grow!"

"Three new houses, and all in the latest style--and how does Margaret's
little property pay?"

"Poorly, father, poorly. Elbridge made a bad choice when he bought
it--greatly out of repair--rents come slowly."

"In a word, the old story, the widow gets nothing again from the city. I
had hopes you would be able to bring her some returns this time, for she
needs it sadly."

"I do the best I can, but money's not to be got out of stone walls."

"And you have three new houses which pay well," old Sylvester continued,
turning his calm blue eye steadily upon his son.

"Capital--best in the city! Already worth twice I gave for 'em. The city
grows and I grow!"

"My son, do you never think of that other house reserved for us all?"

William Peabody was about to answer, it was nonsense for a man only
sixty and in sound condition of body and mind to think too much of that,
when his eye, ranging across the fields, espied in shadow as it were,
through the dim atmosphere, the mist clearing away a little in that
direction, an old sorrel horse--a long settler with the family and
well-known to all its members--staggering about feebly in a distant
orchard, and in her wanderings stumbling against the trees.--"Is old
Sorrel blind?" he asked, shading his own eyes from the light.

"She is, William," old Sylvester replied; "her sight went from her last
New-Year's day."

"My birth-day," said the merchant, a sudden pallor coming upon his
countenance.

"Yes, you and old Sorrel are birth-mates, my son."

"We are; she was foaled the day I was born," said William Peabody, and
added, as to himself, musingly, "Old Sorrel is blind! So we pass--so we
pass--young to-day--to-morrow old--limbs fail us--sight is gone."

They sat silently, contemplating the still morning scene before them,
and meditating, each in his own particular wa